


Forged Love

by ealamusings



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 19th Century, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blacksmith!Peeta, F/M, First Nations, Older Woman/Younger Man, Vancouver Island, age-gap, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 22:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 107,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealamusings/pseuds/ealamusings
Summary: In the early 1830s on the west coast of Vancouver Island, a trading ship meets with a terrible fate, sparing only two lives, and a bond is forged that transcends survival.When their captain’s rash behaviour results in a violent confrontation with the people of Nootka Sound, an adventurous, seventeen-year-old blacksmith and the thirty-year-old, dejected wife of a Hudson’s Bay Company officer are taken as slaves by the "tyee"— the powerful chief of the region. As months stretch into years, and expectations of rescue drift away, Peeta and Katniss discover that hope...and love...can be forged, even from within the crucible of their captivity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: This story contains sexual content and a few moments of violence. It covers infertility and marriage infidelity. The story refers to the issue of slavery as part of the culture of the First Nations people of the west coast of Vancouver Island (now known as the Nuu-Chah-Nulth) during the early 1800s.
> 
> It is my hope and intention to cover all of these topics with the utmost of respect and sensitivity.
> 
> This story is VERY Everlark focussed, despite the Katniss/Gale tag.
> 
> Story genesis: Last year, while contemplating ideas for a new story, I read the novel "On the Island" by Tracey Garvis Graves, a modern-day, age-gap love and survival story. I wanted to tell a tale set on the west coast of Canada and liked the idea of making it a historical. During my research, I came across the memoir of English blacksmith, John R. Jewitt, a ship's armourer who was held as a slave for two and half years at Nootka Sound by the famous Mowachaht chief, Maquinna. The idea of writing an Everlark story that combined elements of these two sources led to "Forged Love."
> 
> While it is loosely based on historical events and people, "Forged Love" is a work of fiction. 
> 
> The 18 chapters alternate between Peeta's and Katniss's point of view.
> 
> I am indebted to authors Suzanne Collins (for creating the compelling characters I love so much) and Tracey Garvis Graves (for putting the age-gap, survival idea in my head). But I am most grateful for the remarkable story of John R. Jewitt for capturing my imagination and providing the inspiration for this tale. 
> 
> I could not have written "Forged Love" without the tireless assistance of my wonderful betas: papofglencoe, finduilasnumenesse, and titaniasfics (all on tumblr). I am so grateful for your suggestions, advice, and encouragement. It was invaluable and is deeply appreciated.
> 
> A huge thank you to akai-echo (also on tumblr) for the gorgeous banner she created for this story. 
> 
> And finally, thank you to everyone who reads my story. I hope you enjoy it.

_**** _

 

 _**“It was the bond of love, forged in the crucible of the Games that was our greatest prize.** _ _**For it is love and true love that allows us all to bear our hardships, that mends the heart and banishes loneliness, and gives meaning to our lives.”**  _

(from _The Hunger Games: Catching Fire_  movie)

 

**Chapter 1**

**Peeta**

The Hudson’s Bay Company trade ship, _Tribute_ , met with fearsome resistance as she tried to come around Cape Horn.

Our complement of twenty-seven— comprised of the captain, his two officers, and a crew of twenty-four, including me— had persisted, but, after a fortnight of sailing against the wind and being tossed about by the formidable seas of the _furious fifties_ latitude, we’d all grown weary.

A lonely albatross had appeared early on in our struggle, floating above us, its slender wings riding the currents of air with effortless grace.

At first, the superstitious crew had interpreted the bird as a good omen that was sure to bring us favourable winds. But, as the days passed and we were met with continued failure, thoughts had turned dark, a festering belief spreading that the great bird was staying our progress— that it was taunting us.

By the second week, the accusations against the albatross became sinister.

“It’s the souls of the dead in that bird, comin’ to condemn us,” one sailor claimed. “The sea’s ganna take us down!”

“She’ll let us through when she’s ready, men,” the first officer, Mr. Boggs, said, attempting to reassure the crew, but it was to no avail. There was no quelling their distress.

Captain Crane, whom I’d only seen as calm and competent up until this point, grew short tempered, snapping at the men when their fatigue led to mistakes following his orders. They blamed the albatross. With evening fast approaching, he exploded in anger.

“Enough!”

Red-faced and glaring at our winged companion, the captain demanded I bring a fowling gun from the hold, and, in a fit of frustration, he shot the albatross. A terrified hush fell over the crew. As much as they’d moaned about the creature as a portent of danger, they were certain this rash act would curse us.

Mr. Boggs and Mr. Mitchell, the second officer, both educated men compared to the mostly illiterate crew under their command, insisted that such superstitions were unfounded and irrational. Patience and skill would help us prevail, they counselled.

I’d been of a similar mind until that moment. Growing up reading about the legends and traditions of the sea, I’d held a whimsical fascination with sailor’s lore. But, as I watched the large seabird tumble, wing over wing, down into the ocean, a dread fell over me as well.

However, the next morning fortune smiled upon us, and we entered the Pacific Ocean on Christmas Day, 1830. Raucous cheers rang out amongst the crew, the celebration growing exuberant when our efforts were rewarded with extra rations of rum.

“Smoother waters ahead,” a vindicated Captain Crane told us, back to his temperate self.

The crew’s misgivings were left in our wake. But, despite our victory, my rational mind couldn’t ignore the creeping sensation running up my spine.

Darius, our sailmaker who’d taken it upon himself to show me the ropes, gave my head a playful smack to snap me out of my ruminations. His face was flushed with rum and revelry.

“Peeta, what’s with the long face?” He waved his arm in a sweeping gesture to the northwest. “You should be actin’ like the young lad ye are, on the verge of great adventure.” He winked at me. “All sorts of good things awaitin’ you.”

I chewed my lip before speaking. “What do you think about the albatross?” Darius wasn’t as superstitious as the other men, though he was free with the tales. “Do you think the captain killing it means anything?” It was a preposterous notion, but after the strange coincidence, I had to ask, “Is that why we made it around the Horn?”

“Nae. I think that poor bird was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, if ye ask me, the captain had little to do with what happened today.” His nearly perpetual smirk vanished into wistfulness. “More like the sea got tired of watchin’ us pine after her. Sometimes, she takes pity on sailors and lets us in.”

I gazed out at the Pacific Ocean— still grey and wild, but now working in our favour— and grinned.

~~~~~

We’d set sail from Gravesend, England, three and a half months earlier, laden with trade goods destined for the west coast of North America. The son of a successful blacksmith whose company employed over a dozen men, I’d spent a large part of my life in the shipyards on the Thames River, hearing exciting tales of adventure in distant places and devouring the accounts of the great explorers.

My father’s newly acquired wealth had made him desirous that I— unlike my older brother whom he deemed ill-equipped for the endeavour— be sent away to an academy of higher education to prepare me for one of the learned professions. As much as I’d enjoyed school, I had found over the course of several years that such vocations held no appeal for me. After tireless entreaties that I be allowed to follow in his and my older brother’s trade, my father finally relented, and I returned home to work at his side.

While his ship was undergoing repairs prior to crossing the Atlantic, Captain Crane had mentioned to my father that he was in need of a competent blacksmith to act as ship’s armourer. This was the opportunity that had filled my dreams! I was a month away from my seventeenth birthday, but, despite my youth, the captain agreed to take me on. He seemed most impressed with what he described as my _agreeable and sunny disposition_ — a valuable quality, he declared, aboard a ship at sea. Living in cramped quarters for extended periods of time could become intolerable with a crew of surly sailors.

It took a little more convincing to persuade my father, but Captain Crane and his officers claimed that any enterprising young man, after a short time travelling the globe and increasing his experience, could establish himself in a good and profitable life in the New World, where opportunities were limitless for those up to the challenge. Given that my older brother was first in line to inherit our family business, my father agreed this was a worthy option.

With my father’s blessing and a sad farewell to him and my brother, I departed England in the beginning of September.

Serving in the capacity of ship’s armourer, it was my job to forge items such as daggers, knives, and hatchets for the Indian trade, to supply the company forts with the tools and weapons they needed, and to employ my blacksmithing talents in maintaining the ship. My forge was located on the deck up front near the _fo’c’s’le,_ where the crew had their quarters. We slept in cramped bunks, while the captain and his two officers had roomier accommodations in the stern of the vessel. I also had a work bench located below in the steerage, which I used when the weather made it impossible to work up top.

Captain Crane was a strict but fair man, and, with the exception of the stressful events at Cape Horn, his cool demeanour and authoritative control maintained discipline without sacrificing morale on his ship. However, that didn’t protect me from some good-natured harassment from my crewmates. I was horribly seasick the first week at sea, which garnered me equal amounts of ridicule and empathy until I gained my sea legs.

The men also liked to poke fun at my age, being as I was the youngest on board, along with my lack of worldly experience. The small party they threw when I turned seventeen a few weeks into our voyage was a venue for more teasing. The fact that I’d never been with a woman was of particular amusement, but I soon got over my initial embarrassment. Everybody on board, with the exception of our officers, was a target of friendly abuse for one reason or another.

Long before we rounded the Horn, I’d been regaled with colourful stories by my mates, bragging about exploits and experiences that either fascinated or horrified me, depending on the exact details. Most tantalizing were the tales of taking leave in the Pacific Ocean’s picturesque Sandwich Islands with the men’s descriptions of the lovely, dusky-skinned island girls.

“Just ye wait, Peeta,” Darius told me, a broad grin on his ruddy face, his arm around my neck. “There’s no sweeter sight for a sailor than seein’ them swim right out to the ship, naked and wantin’ nothin’ more than to shower you in their affections.” He pinched my cheek and laughed. “One look at you with your blond-hair, blue-eyes, and innocent face, and they’ll be trippin’ over themselves to make a man out of ye.”

Mr. Boggs suppressed a smile as he overheard our conversation from his station at the helm. I took the men’s teasing well, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be the brunt of some hidden joke.

Walking over to the wheel to speak with him, I asked, “Is it true, sir?”

With a gentle smile, Mr. Boggs confirmed that it was, from his observation, indeed the Sandwich Islanders’ way to welcome visitors to their islands with such unfettered hospitality. When I asked him if he’d ever experienced it firsthand, he looked at me with mock offence.

“I’m a married man.” But he gave me a wink, which brought a little colour to my cheeks along with a grin.

I’d learned, growing up around the merchant ships, that men engaged in the overseas trade often sought out such comforts. It wasn’t only the sailors aboard the trading ships. Most of the men living in the company forts maintained country marriages with Native women, even the ones who had proper families back home.

At first, it was hard for me to imagine how they reconciled living these dual lives with such unapologetic disregard. But, as the weeks went on, I thought about my family back in England, growing more distant, with no idea of when or if I’d ever see them again. I began to understand a little about what would make someone break their vows and seek out companionship under such circumstances, and I decided not to judge too harshly. Separated from loved ones, isolation and loneliness could become a heavy burden to bear in a strange and foreign land.

Of the men on board the _Tribute_ , only our captain, Mr. Boggs, and a few of the crew were married, and I wondered if it troubled them. However, being unencumbered by commitments back home, I found it easy to allow my imagination to run wild during the long and often tedious days and nights as we sailed into the unknown.

The thoughts of warm, tropical islands, and the tantalizing gifts they offered, became more tangible once we entered the Pacific Ocean. But before we would detour to those fair isles, our first stop was the Oregon Territory.

“Don’t ye worry, lad,” Darius said. “Come next autumn, we’ll be done with our job in the north, and we sail for Polynesia!”

 ~~~~~

We arrived at Fort Vancouver in the middle of March, 1831— a bustling post comprised of mostly British, French Canadian, and Native inhabitants on the Columbia River in the Oregon Territory. In addition to delivering and replenishing our supplies, we took on a surprising passenger.

Captain Crane welcomed an Englishwoman on board the _Tribute_.

We were transporting her to Fort Simpson, the newly-established trading post at the edge of the Russian territory on the northern continental coast. We would drop off goods and take on a cargo of furs gathered from the company’s network of inland trappers, delivering them to England on the return voyage. And we would reunite Mrs. Hawthorne with her husband, a commissioned gentleman with the Hudson’s Bay Company, who was stationed there.

We’d been sternly lectured beforehand about our conduct, but in my case it hadn’t been necessary. I was tongue-tied when I saw her. I could barely even look at her when the Captain introduced his crew and she nodded in our direction.

She was small— little more than five feet in height, from my reckoning— and slight of build. Her dress was made of fabric typical of the bolts we carried in our hold. The calico print was the colour of rich cream, covered in a generous pattern of tiny, blue-green flowers that echoed the colour of the sea, dark brown vines, and gold and bronze leaves. It wasn’t as vibrant as the turkey reds, bright yellows, and indigos so popular in trade, but I liked the way the warm shades looked against her skin.

She carried herself with a dignified bearing. When she spoke to Captain Crane, asking how long the voyage would take, I recognized a Yorkshire accent. But there was some inflection in her northern delivery that hinted of a higher social standing. It was something I was sensitive to after my time at the academy, where efforts had been made to suppress my working-class Kentish accent.

It wasn’t surprising that she was the wife of a company man, but I’d learned that European women were extremely rare in these parts— the frontier was considered too harsh for their delicate sensibilities— so it was impossible not to be intrigued by what’d brought her here.

The captain gave the command to hoist our anchor and prepare to depart from Fort Vancouver. All the crew assisted in setting the sails, which gave me a chance to surreptitiously observe our passenger some more before she was escorted to her quarters in the stern of the _Tribute_.

Mrs. Hawthorne did not appear again on deck until the following afternoon to stretch her legs and get some fresh air. Maybe our captain suggested to her that, with the exception of the more refined and disciplined officers, she should limit her time above, as it would distract the crew. It seemed warranted, given how the men stopped and leered at her when she graced us with her presence.

Darius had the audacity, under the scornful watch of our captain, to approach her, his knit hat in hand, with an offer to be her personal escort around the main deck, given as— in his words— the rest of the crew were a bunch of _ill-mainnert ainimals_.

Giving a huff, she assured him that, after ten years living amongst some of the uncouth fur trappers in the Columbia District, she was more than capable of looking out for herself.

She smirked at the sailmaker. “I thought it was unlucky to have a redhead aboard a ship.”

Darius’s eyes sparkled at the challenge. “So’s a woman.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But a _naked_ woman brings good fortune.” Mrs. Hawthorne gave a snort and rolled her eyes.

I watched the whole exchange, half-concealed behind my forge, and couldn’t help be impressed at how she handled herself. Or stare, despite my desire to separate myself from the _ill-mannered animals_. She made me feel oddly protective of her honour as the men gawked and, at the same time, ashamed that I was guilty of doing the same. It didn’t help that Darius mentioning naked women put ideas in my head.

Not paying proper attention to my work, I gave myself a small burn. Mrs. Hawthorne’s head darted towards me when I let out a grunt and swore under my breath. I was careful after that to quickly avert my eyes whenever she turned her gaze in my direction. But it didn’t stop me from studying her whenever I got the chance.

After she retired to her quarters, Mr. Boggs reminded us all once again to remember our manners and mind our duties.

Not that it mattered— she’d captured my imagination, disturbing me from my work during the day and ruining my sleep like never before.

Though she was as unattainable as those distant islands that had occupied my dreams over the last several months, this real woman managed to push away all thoughts of hypothetical Polynesian girls with her singular, striking beauty.

Her hair was very dark and gathered, with the exception of a few tight curls framing her face, in intricate braids at the back of her head. Her skin was olive-toned— perhaps that was why she evoked such a reaction in me, associating her in my mind with the exotic girls of my fantasies— and I wondered, if I was to run a hand across her cheek, if it would feel as soft as it looked. It also made me curious about her heritage— her look, her accent, the way she carried herself— she was a captivating mystery. She didn’t come close enough for me to determine the exact colour of her eyes, and it became a fixation for me to find out.

She took her meals with Captain Crane and his two officers, spending much of the time down below, but for brief periods she would bring her needlework onto the deck where the light was good, and I could watch her from where I worked at my forge.

On the third day, just before sunset, I happened to see her on the quarterdeck, speaking with the captain. It was a beautiful, clear evening, and the seas were tranquil. We weren’t making very quick progress due to the lack of wind, but I didn’t mind— it meant having Mrs. Hawthorne on board a little longer. I’d chosen to eat my meal on the deck, giving the excuse that I wanted to take advantage of the calm conditions to work. But the truth was I didn’t want to miss the chance to see her whenever she reappeared.

I’d guessed her to be in her mid-twenties at most, so I was surprised to learn otherwise.

“My compliments to your husband, Mrs. Hawthorne, for procuring such a young and charming wife willing to live so far from civilized society,” Captain Crane said.

I puttered at my forge, trying to pretend I was absorbed in turning hunks of metal into daggers. Despite the captain’s compliment, she didn’t smile at his words, only managing the smallest uptick of the corner of her pretty mouth. I wondered what it would take to make her smile.

“On the contrary, Captain. I’ll be turning thirty-one in May, less than two months from now.”

Her blunt retort made my eyes grow wide and left the captain at a loss for words. I was disappointed when she bid him goodnight and left the deck, as I would’ve liked to learn more about her.

Later that night, reluctant to turn in, I sat behind my forge, staring at the stars. I was thinking about Mrs. Hawthorne when she surprised me, appearing at the starboard rail only a few yards away at midship. It was dark and quiet, with only the night watch on deck, but she sought out a spot somewhat hidden from their view by my equipment. My heart beat faster, realizing that, in the dim moonlight, she hadn’t seen me.

She leaned over the railing, staring down at the black water splashing gently along our hull. I liked to watch how the disturbed ocean lit up with phosphorescence in the night, and I wondered if she did, too. But I panicked when she stretched up on her tiptoes and leaned a little farther over the side, dangerously close to falling overboard. I called out a warning, scrambling to my feet as the ship rolled over to starboard. I reached out, thinking to grab ahold of her dress, when she spun around to face me, her face pale in the moonlight, hands clasping the rail behind her.

Her eyes were wide, dark and wild, and possessed by something else. I froze and swallowed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologized. “It looked for a moment like you were going to end up over the side.”

Mrs. Hawthorne didn’t say anything, but stood staring at me with her big eyes. It was easier in the dark not to look away, so I watched how the tension in her shoulders released and her countenance grew somber and almost sad. She murmured under her breath, and I leaned a little closer, trying to catch what she said, but she was already turning away. However, not before I noticed the downward curve of her mouth and the small lines between her eyes. It looked to me like embarrassment, or perhaps even guilt.

She vanished below deck, and I pondered what she would have to feel guilty about. I hated that the first time I’d spoken to her I’d done something to make her feel that way.

The next day, the winds picked up and the seas grew rough. It was threatening to rain, so I prepared to move my work below deck, intending to eat my stew and biscuits as I organized my tools. It was an unexpected delight to see Mrs. Hawthorne, but I quickly learned what brought her on deck when she vomited over the side. I saw my chance to make things right after our previous encounter and approached her.

Taking a deep breath to work up my courage, I said, “This helped me when I first got seasick,” holding out my mug of tea and a biscuit.

She looked at me, hesitating for a second, and then nodded and gave me a small smile. It made my heart flutter with happiness that I’d managed to inspire that reaction, and I smiled back.

“Thank you,” she whispered, accepting the mug. “I was like this on the ship when I came over from England. I’d forgotten how bad it could be.”

Keeping one arm wrapped around the rail for stability, she took a sip. When I handed her the biscuit, she pulled off tiny crumbs and slowly ate them. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, eating the rest of my dinner.

After about fifteen minutes of silence she spoke. “I’m feeling better, but I think I’ll go lie down now,” she announced, giving me back my mug. The first, fat drops of rain made her tilt her face up to the now leaden sky.

That’s when I got a closeup view of her eyes. I’d thought she was striking before, but seeing how big and grey they were— like the tempest engulfing us— made me realize I’d underestimated how amazing she was, even though she was still a bit green from nausea.

Speaking with her made me giddy, though I knew I was deluding myself thinking that it meant anything. By the time I turned in for the night, I realized that, for the first time since Mrs. Hawthorne had come aboard, I was miserable. In a short time she would leave us— and I hated the thought. It was more than the idle fantasies brought on by six months at sea without having seen a woman. She had an effect on me that was solely her doing.

The weather grew more intense through the night, and nobody got any sleep when all hands were called on deck to contend with the storm. High winds tossed us about, nearly drowning the captain’s voice as he bellowed out orders. Icy sheets of rain pelted our bodies, and I was knocked from my feet more than once by waves crashing over the deck. This wasn’t the first tempest on our voyage, and yet it still left me in awe. Clinging to whatever secure handhold I could, I watched the fearless crew, working high up in the rigging, while an unforgiving sea sent the ship pitching and rolling as if to dislodge the men and pull them down into a watery grave.

A couple hours later, the storm began to dissipate, and, when released from duty, I collapsed into my berth without the energy to strip out of my sodden clothing. By morning, the seas had calmed and the sky was a benign shade of pale blue. We’d sustained minor damage to our hull, our mast was in need of repairs, and several sails were torn apart. But the storm hadn’t the power to displace my dispirited preoccupation with our lovely passenger.

My change in demeanour didn’t escape Darius’s attention. Making repairs to the sails, he called me over. Tipping his head over to where Mrs. Hawthorne was conversing with Mr. Mitchell, he spoke with an uncharacteristic lack of ribbing.

“It’s not surprisin’ with a lass like her on board that you’d be out of sorts. Hell, she’s added some excitement to my imaginations, too.” I frowned at his confession, a disturbing mix of protectiveness and possessiveness roiling inside my gut. “But you’d do best to not torture yoursel’ and put thoughts of her out of your mind.” He nudged my shoulder and smirked. “In a fortnight she’ll be gone, and we’ll be left havin’ to endure your besotted, forlorn face.”

He became serious again when I pursed my lips, not taking his joke with my usual easy manner. “Trust me, Peeta, nothin’ good will ever come of this infatuation.”

He patted me on the back and returned to his work, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Though it didn’t make me feel any better, I knew Darius was right.  

 ~~~~~

Two days later we arrived at Nootka Sound, about two thirds of the way up the west coast of Vancouver Island. Captain Crane announced we would take on fresh water and timber to repair the damage to our ship. We sailed into Friendly Cove, where, as the name suggested, we were met with a warm reception by the Nootka people, eager to trade.

I was awed at the sight of a dozen large canoes, carrying nearly a hundred men, paddling out to surround the _Tribute_. Many more men, and twice as many women and children, remained on shore.

But the man in the largest canoe stood out from the rest. It didn’t take any explanation to figure out he was their chief. He exuded a regal deportment, and it surprised me when he addressed the captain with a rudimentary knowledge of English.

He was an impressive man, over six feet in height, his copper-coloured skin decorated in an intricate pattern of red and black paint, his long, black hair oiled and gathered on top his head and adorned in white feather down. It called to mind the eagles we’d seen perched on the tall evergreen trees along the coast. He was dressed in a mantle of the finest sea otter pelts that hung down to his knees, with a leather waistband decorated with colourful figures representing the heads of humans and animals. I guessed him to be approximately fifty years of age.

His men also wore knee-length mantles, but theirs were made of some kind of woven cloth. They shared the painted skin of their chief, though with less elaborate design.

Captain Crane welcomed the chief and a few of his men on board so they could discuss our needs, their goods, and the terms of trade.

It didn’t escape my attention that Mrs. Hawthorne was nowhere to be seen. Despite the amicable rapport between us and the Nootka delegation, it made me wonder if the captain had told her to stay hidden as a precaution against some possible danger. I hoped not.

 ~~~~~

 **NOTES:** _fo'c's'le_ — short for forecastle, the forward portion of a ship, often the location of the crew's quarters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Katniss's life.

**Chapter 2**

**Katniss**

I stood on deck, clutching the rail in my hands, mesmerized by the faint, spectral luminescence where the ship’s hull cut through the water. Even though it was dark, I’d sought the best spot to hide from the watchful eyes of the crew. Unable to sleep, I couldn’t take another moment below, my cramped quarters making it hard to breath. But neither did I want to be subjected to the inevitable attention on the deck.

Cool night air caressed my skin, and I closed my eyes and leaned into it. There’d been a time when such an ocean breeze would have been invigorating, but now its cold fingers dulled and desensitized— exactly what I wanted. The swooshing of the water against the side of the _Tribute_ lulled me. It left me hoping that its gentle sound might permeate my brain, leaving my mind as blank as my body felt numbed from the air.

But hope was an insubstantial thing, and I was no longer predisposed to have much faith in its power.

Hope didn’t put food on the table or keep you warm at night. Hope could be crushed by events beyond your control. Clawing and scraping and making the hard choices were the keys to survival. But tonight I wasn’t certain I had any fight left. I was so tired and running out of reasons to try.

It hadn’t always been this way. I’d been fighting against the hand fate had dealt me ever since I’d been orphaned at the age of fourteen. The responsibility of caring for my little sister, Primrose, who’d only been ten years old, had fallen on me. We’d survived thanks to the tenacity I’d inherited from my father.

And yet here I stood, sixteen years later, life having delivered one too many cruel blows, and I understood just how much of my mother’s fragile nature I’d also inherited. When Father died, she lost all hope, following him into the grave less than six months later.

But, back in the fall of 1820, twenty years old and still my father’s daughter, I used the money my best friend Gale sent me to purchase passage to the New World. Four years earlier he’d left the dirty, crowded environs of Manchester for Rupert’s Land and the fur trade to make a better life than what was available to impoverished children like us in England. He’d made his way up the ranks, eventually securing the position of trading clerk in the Oregon Territory.

Though I wasn’t surprised to receive his letter— he’d promised to send for me and Prim once he’d gotten himself established— his offer of marriage _had_ surprised me. Having never thought of Gale that way, I’d assumed we’d carry on as we had before, so this was a new twist in our relationship. I was too busy keeping Prim and myself from starving to give much thought to marriage up to that point— not that anyone else was offering, even if I’d been open to the idea.

Coming from a prosperous family in Liverpool, my mother had been raised with options. She even had the luxury of marrying for love, and, though her family turned their back on her for choosing a man they deemed beneath her, my father had provided a good life for us. At least while he was alive.

The future wasn’t as promising for me and my sister. The Napoleonic Wars had taken their toll, and eligible women outnumbered men in England. Poor, orphaned, and as plentiful as the vermin that scurried in Manchester’s alleyways outside our home, Prim and I had few prospects. Especially me.

Having inherited my father’s colouring, I was used to the suspicions about my heritage, making me a less-than-desirable catch. Even as a child, I’d seen the narrowed eyes as people evaluated my complexion and the tight curl of my dark hair when it wasn’t carefully smoothed and groomed into submission. I’d heard their whispers— how I was the _Everdeen_ girl— which prompted knowing nods as hidden facts came to light. In a Hudson’s Bay Company trading fort, where all the other woman were Native or Métis, I could blend in.

Moreover, Gale claimed that a fair and pretty girl like Prim, who resembled our mother, would be a rare pearl in the fur-trading world. Not only could she marry, but marry _well_. If his offer of marriage gave me pause, I was convinced to accept for Prim’s sake. I reminded myself that Gale and I were two pragmatic people— it was how we’d survived those early years— so accepting my best friend’s proposal seemed only logical.

But that didn’t mean that two English girls would be welcomed with open arms by the company. Compared to the Native women who’d grown up in close proximity to the fur trade culture, there was justifiable concern that we were ill-suited, too delicate to adapt to the rigours of fort life.

But Prim and I weren’t typical English girls. While our mother had insisted on raising us to be ladies, which meant we could read and had retained the traces of good breeding and privilege, our father’s love of the outdoors had left its mark on us as well. He’d held the position of gamekeeper on a sprawling estate in the Yorkshire Dales, encouraging our interest in the flora and fauna in his care.

Our mother indulged our father by letting him teach us archery, as it was a respectable hobby for young ladies, but she drew the line at letting us join him hunting unwanted pests. Prim and I made up for it by spending long days running wild, exploring the woods, meadows, and streams of our surroundings, behaving like the untamed creatures we often chased.

Mother would frown at our muddy dresses and our filthy hands, feet, and grinning faces. But one glance at our father’s proud smile and she’d sigh, setting us free again the next day, once our studies were completed to her satisfaction.

Because of our upbringing, Prim and I were a unique blend of refinement and resilience, and Gale knew that we’d soon win over the commissioned officers who valued a touch of Old World gentility in the isolated posts.

The week after we arrived at Fort George, near the mouth of the Columbia River, Gale and I made it official— or at least as official as was possible in a land without clergy or government other than the company’s authority. Gale promised to accept all responsibility for my support, his pledge witnessed by the chief factor and his second in command, the chief trader. A party was held in honour of the occasion.

In the summer of 1822, Prim, now eighteen, married Henry Carruthers, the fort’s doctor, whom she loved. I was thrilled for her. Gale and I were efficient partners, and I was comfortable with my life as his wife. At least at first.

A year and a half after marrying Henry, Prim gave birth to their baby boy, Frederick. Gale and I had been married for almost three years at that point. I was twenty-three and yet to conceive. We didn’t dwell on it, but I knew how important it was to him, and, as the years went on and as motherhood continued to elude me, I realized how much I wanted it, too.

In 1825, we relocated upriver to Fort Vancouver, the newly established company station built where the Columbia met the Willamette River. We settled into the modest Bachelors’ Quarters apartments assigned to the lower-ranking clerks and their families.

The chief factor’s house, the surgery—above which Henry and Prim lived, the blacksmith’s shop, the trading store, and various other buildings occupied the rest of the grounds within the pickets. The skilled tradesmen and labourers and their families lived in the small village outside the walls.

The women and children dined separately from the company officers, one of several peculiarities of company culture— a blend of formal, English traditions and Native customs. As officers’ wives, we had servants to cook our meals and help with the many chores. Ever since Prim and I first landed in the Columbia District, we’d made up for the lack of amenities by doing our best to teach the fort children to read and write. When we weren’t spending time with the other women— improving our French, which was widely spoken around the fort, or learning to scandalously ride horses astride the way they did— we sewed and mended clothing, visited over quilting and needlework, and read whatever books we could get our hands on.

Within weeks of our arrival at Fort Vancouver, my little sister went into labour the second time, and she and her husband welcomed twin girls, Lily and Rose, to their family. I tried to be happy for her, but it was impossible to hide my discouragement.

“Try not to worry, Katniss,” she said, stroking my hair, comforting me when I should’ve been showering her with my joy at her good fortune. “Your time will come.”

But it didn’t, and the more anxious I became, the more strain it put on my marriage. Every time I heard someone express pity or concern, I was reminded of how public my private shame had become. Instead of their advice, what I heard in my head were accusations, saying that, _if perhaps I was more like my sweet and gentle sister_ or _if I tried a bit harder to be an attentive wife,_ they were certain things would work out. It made me want to scream. Though he didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t a secret that Gale received his own share of mocking for his deficiencies as a man. He took it about as well as I did— with sullen silence.

In 1828, Prim and Henry had their fourth child, another beautiful baby boy, whom they named William, and my distress multiplied. Even Prim cried for me.

“It’s so unfair,” she said, placing her infant in my arms. “All the years you looked after me, if anyone deserves to be a mother, it’s you.”

I could never resent Prim, and I took some solace in lavishing my attention on her brood. And, just like when we were children, Gale and I shared the burden of our misfortune together, stolidly and without complaint. But it took its toll on me. Just as had been the case when I was first orphaned, I could barely sleep.

When I managed to dream, they were nightmares— seeing my father crushed to death by a wagon pulled by a team of spooked horses, being turned out of the gamekeeper’s cottage soon after, living in squalor in the sooty, factory city where my mother passed away, being afraid and hungry, watching Prim, so pale and thin, fighting for breath from the pneumonia that followed on the heels of the measles we’d both contracted, wondering how we would make it.

By the beginning of 1830, on the cusp of thirty years of age, I’d convinced myself that Gale and I had come to terms with our fate. In a way it was easier. We were more like the friends we’d been when we were back in England. It was less complicated. Gale, who’d recently turned thirty-two, worked hard, hoping to advance from the position of clerk to chief trader, and I pretended to not notice the discontent creeping in between us.

One evening in late January, Gale came home in an irritable mood. He didn’t answer when I asked about his day, instead retreating to our small sitting room. When I joined him, he sat staring at the fire, ruminating on some troubling thoughts until I insisted he tell me what happened.

He turned to me and said through clenched teeth, “You know what.”

Yes. I had a pretty good idea. Someone must have said something hurtful, and he was tired of being polite and not lashing out in anger. Maintaining a level head amongst his peers, when they felt it necessary to weigh in on such a personal issue, had become intolerable.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when, after a drink had loosened his tongue, he proceeded to tell me about his first marriage, which he’d entered into shortly after he arrived in Rupert’s Land, but I was. A marriage _à la façon du pays_ with a Native woman was standard for men in his situation. Gale was ambitious, and it was how things worked in the company. The men were encouraged to form these alliances for the benefit of the fur trade. What made it strange was that it wasn’t like him to hold back such an important detail of his life from me.

And you’d think I might’ve been upset or jealous, but I wasn’t. I’d grown used to thinking of him as my friend again, so, despite the nature of his confession, I was actually curious. He told me she belonged to a local Cree tribe.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“I was offered a posting here in the Columbia District that was too good an opportunity to refuse, but she didn’t want to leave her family or home.”

Though I knew plenty of these partnerships were rooted in genuine affection, it wasn’t unusual for many of the arrangements to dissolve when it no longer served one or both party’s interests. It didn’t always end well, especially for the women.

“Were you in love with her?”

“She helped make those first years bearable. I was sorry we had to part.”

“I guess that explains why I didn’t hear from you for so long after you left England.”

“Oh, Katniss,” he said with sincerity. “I would have sent for you anyway, if I’d been in any position to do so. It wasn’t until I came here that I was able to offer anything suitable for you and Prim. And, well, I’d gotten used to the idea of being married by then, and I liked the idea of having a wife from back home, whom I could relate to better.”

Though there was love between us, I knew that our arrangement was as practical as his first. Our loyalty and sensible natures had been the cornerstone of our friendship, and our relationship was built on that bond. We’d shared everything over the years, so I still couldn’t make sense of why he’d kept this bit of history from me.

I frowned. “Why didn't you tell me about her before?”

“We had a child together. A girl.”

My first thought was how hard it must’ve been for him, a man who wanted a child so badly, to have been forced to choose between his career aspirations and his first wife and daughter, and that he hadn’t told me because he was ashamed for abandoning them.

But then it all made sense why Gale was telling me this today, after receiving one too many jabs at his masculinity. _He had fathered a child_. A bitter chill stiffened my spine. All the buried shame poured out from the deep recesses of my heart.

“And now here you are, burdened with a barren wife. How disappointing for you,” I spat out, my acidity barely masking my hurt.

He leaned forward, staring at his hands folded in front of him on his knees. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t know why I said it,” he mumbled, not able to look me in the eye.

“Yes, you do. And so do I.” Gale had many fine qualities— they were what had helped him escape from poverty. Humility wasn’t one of them.

His back straightened at my cutting reply. He rose from the armchair and reached for his coat. “I’m going for a walk.”

“It’s late,” I replied, as if it mattered.

The clicking of the door latch closing behind him was his answer.

I threw on my cloak and went to see the one person with whom I could openly share my abasement— Prim. One look and her delight at seeing me, even at that hour, turned to dismay. “What’s wrong?”

I fell into her arms as she pulled me inside her home. When I told her about Gale’s revelation, she grew indignant. “That was a terrible thing for him to share. He placed his pride over your pain, even though he already knows how much you blame yourself.”

I shrugged, unable to speak, my vision blurred by tears. I was used to being the strong one, the big sister who always looked out for us both, so I swiped the tears from my face and forced a smile on my face.

“I’ll be fine. You know I’ve never let bad luck get the best of me.”

Just then, Prim’s eldest, Frederick, burst into the room and threw his arms around his mother. He was seven years old and so much like her.

“Your Auntie Katniss needs a hug, too,” Prim said, and I revelled in the feel of his skinny arms around my neck and the soft, blond curls against my cheek. He ran off to join his little brother and twin sisters when she told him to wash up for bed. Prim regarded me, the tips of her fingers lightly drumming on her knee the way she did when she was deep in thought.

“What’s on your mind, Little Duck? I always know when you’ve got something to say,” I teased, feeling marginally better. She grabbed my hand and placed it on her belly, and gave me a sad smile. “Oh, Prim. Really?” I couldn’t help feel guilty as a wave of envy invaded my happiness for her. When she didn’t let go of my hand, squeezing it as I tried to pull away, I furrowed my brow. “What is it?”

“I’ve already discussed it with Henry. And we’re both in agreement. We want you and Gale to have this one.”

I gasped. “No, Prim. You can’t.” I was staggered by the offer.

“Yes, I can. And I will. Especially now after what you told me. It’s my turn to look after you. We’re family, and we’re in this together, just like always.”

I started to cry again, only this time with happier tears. And I flirted with the idea that perhaps hope was real. “I love you.”

Prim’s arms gathered me close, and she kissed my cheek. “I love you, too.”

For a while, things improved between Gale and me. It was a compromise we could live with— something to hang on to, the thread to stitch together the fabric of our frayed relationship. Things weren’t perfect, but perfection was something I’d long given up ever attaining.

Six months later, on an incongruously beautiful day in July, I watched as they laid the bodies of my sister and her unborn child in the ground. Malaria had arrived on one of the ships from the south, exacting a terrible toll on the Native population. Being a vulnerable, expectant mother, the epidemic took Prim’s life, too. I looked on in stunned disbelief, too numb to cry, as a grieving Henry comforted his children.

Bitter resignation overspread Gale’s face. Though he didn’t say it aloud, the dull, defeated way he stared at the world revealed he felt as cursed as I did. I suspected he blamed himself for bringing us out here with promises of a better life. When I held my nieces and nephews and saw how deeply they missed their mother, I hated myself, too. Later, I tried to tell Gale it wasn’t his fault, that I didn’t blame him. But, from the look on his face, he didn’t believe me. Probably because a part of me didn’t believe it either.

That was the day I understood my mother. I’d lost hope. The only thing keeping me going was years of practice in surviving. Like an automaton, I continued to go through the motions, and Gale did, too, eagerly accepting the transfer to a new posting on the northern coast that fall. He made arrangements to go ahead in order to get things ready for me to come and join him the following spring. I’m sure he was drawn to the idea of starting again in a place less connected to sorrow. He never bothered to ask my opinion about the move, and I was too busy drowning in my bereavement to say.

His last words to me before boarding the ship were to tell me he loved me. I knew he was telling me the truth on some level, but the best answer I could muster in response was to say, “I know.”

When he’d kissed me goodbye, I could taste all the misery that he shared with me. But there was also a faint, sweet flavour of faded memories from when we were young and still believed we could overcome any obstacle in our path. An unrealistic promise of solidarity that had once been our strength but had now become our snare.

And so, here I was, heading for Fort Simpson, separating from my only connection to my beloved sister: her children. I was too weary to resent Gale for taking me away from them.

Gazing down at that dark water, I wondered what was the point of it? This stubborn, futile struggle against a relentless tide. I’d spent enough time at sea to know the most that feeble humans could do was submit to its superior power. I stretched a little further over the rail. It would be best. Gale would be free of his broken wife, and I would be free of… everything. If I did it, here in the darkness, no one would know I didn’t accidentally slip…

But I never got the chance. I don’t know how I hadn’t seen him, sitting beside the forge. I suppose I was too wrapped up in gloom. Startled by his warning shout, it took me a moment to recognize him— the young armourer, the one who was too shy, or too polite, to blatantly gawk at me like the rest of the crew.

He may have looked away before, but tonight he stared into my eyes as if he could discern my thoughts. I hated him for being there, for being witness to my intentions, for judging me— because surely he must by the alarmed expression on his face. He made some innocent comment about how he was concerned I might fall overboard. Like I owed him for coming to my rescue. As if he knew anything about me. There was so little left that I had any control over anymore, and here this boy acted as if it was his place to do me such a favour!

The heat of anger was short-lived though, as I detected worry, not judgement, in his eyes. I turned away before he could say something else. I didn’t want anyone’s pity.

Retreating to the solitude of my berth, that night I dreamed of Prim. We were young, before we lost our parents, playing in a meadow, making flower crowns and singing folk songs our father taught us from his early life in the West Indies. It was the first sweet thing I’d experienced since she died. The sensation was so unexpected that it wasn’t until after I rose late the next day, feeling horribly ill from the churning seas, that I realized I’d slept through the night. I couldn’t remember when that had last happened.

I saw the boy again on the deck, and he was so kind that I couldn’t hate or judge him as harshly as the night before. It wasn’t his fault I was a wreck. He didn’t know better. I imagined how it would’ve been for him, possibly blaming himself if I had succeeded in my plan the previous night. And I was glad that the burden of my misery hadn’t fallen on his shoulders.

Thankfully, the storm didn’t last long, though— with my nausea and the groaning of the tempest-tossed ship— it was unsettling to say the least. The next morning, Mr. Boggs said that we’d sustained some damage to our main mast and hull. He assured me it wasn’t serious, and that, once we’d anchored in the safe harbour of Nootka Sound, we’d make repairs.

After eating a little food, I ventured onto the quarterdeck and joined Captain Crane as he directed our progress along the coastline. The sky was clear and the mist, a near perpetual companion in this part of the world, had lifted. With it, my spirits seemed lighter. From the vantage of the ship, I was awed by the beauty of this place, so green and rugged. Pristine waterfalls flowed out of dense, evergreen forests from the impressive, snow-capped mountains behind them. Waves crashed, dissolving into fine spray against rocky points. Small, protected coves with sandy or pebbled beaches and mysterious inlets beckoned me to explore.

It was interesting how, before the storm, the majesty of this place hadn’t kindled any reaction inside me. Now I was reminded of my father and our mutual love of nature, how his blood flowed in my veins. It was hard to see such a sight and not feel the acute loss of him even after all these years, but, mingled with the beauty before me, the sensation was bittersweet.

I closed my eyes, soaking up the sun on my face and enjoying the feeling of renewed good health. A chair was provided for me so I could do my needlework. Looking up from my stitching, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the boy glancing at me over by his forge. He quickly turned away as soon as our eyes met.

Perhaps it was the way the scenery had awakened my imagination, but he made me curious.

“It looks like your armourer has set aside working on trade items to help with repairs as well,” I said to Captain Crane.

He regarded me before answering. “You’re very astute. Yes, some of our goods stored in the hold broke loose in the storm, so Peeta is making new metal straps to secure them. Not to worry though, Mrs. Hawthorne. Your husband will still receive plenty of knives, daggers, and muskets to satisfy the trade requirements at Fort Simpson.”

I ignored his mention of the fort. “Peeta? That’s an unusual name.” His accent was British— somewhere from the south of England, from my estimation— but we’d spoken so little with each other, I wondered where exactly he was from. “When did he join your crew?”

“I took him on in Gravesend when we shipped out last September.”

Prim and I had sailed from Liverpool, but Gravesend, in the county Kent, was close to the Hudson’s Bay Company’s London headquarters and was the company’s primary point of departure. Peeta’s accent fit the area.

The captain went on to add, “I became acquainted with his father, who was contracted to undertake repairs to the _Tribute_ while we were in port. I spent many evenings as Mr. Mellark’s guest in his fine home.”

That bit of news was unexpected. It struck me as unusual that a blacksmith would be of sufficient means or sophistication to provide suitable company for a polished man like Captain Crane.

Seeing my puzzlement, the captain explained, “The Mellarks are well known and respected in their trade. Very successful. Peeta is the younger son. Seventeen is unusual for a job with this much responsibility, I know, but he’s had years of experience. When I learned he wished to see the world and his father was eager for him to have as much opportunity as possible, I didn’t hesitate to offer him the position. Why the interest, might I ask?”

My face flushed a little. “He was considerate to me.” Also, with the ache of my loss still fresh, he reminded me of Prim with his blond waves and how, just like her, his fair skin was made a little ruddy and freckled from long hours exposed to the elements.

The captain chuckled. “Yes, he is better mannered than some of these brutes. But this is his first time at sea. He intends to leave the ship after this trip, set up his own business back east, I believe. Hopefully his character will not be corrupted by the men before then.”

I remained on the deck for the rest of the day, entranced by the scenery. Ignoring the leering crew was trying, but I didn’t mind so much the young armourer stealing glances. Possibly it was his youth that intrigued me. Peeta was handsome in a boyish way, and, behind his shyness, he gave off a warmth that reminded me of my father. Or maybe it was because, compared to the rest of the men, he had the decency to blush and turn away when I caught him looking my direction. I pondered Captain Crane’s words about his young armourer and wondered if he’d end up course and hardened like the others.

When we sailed into Nootka Sound, the captain recommended that I remain below deck while we were anchored there. I didn’t take to the prescribed confinement well. He explained it was only for a few days, a week at most, but he believed it to be a prudent precaution.

“I thought they called this place, _Friendly_ Cove,” I protested. I knew that numerous European ships had sojourned here over the past several decades. There’d even been a Spanish settlement nearby for a time during the last century.

“Even so, they are savages. And you are a woman, after all,” he replied.

I bristled at his comment— he had no idea of how _this_ woman had taken care of herself in a cruel world from the time she was a child, not to mention the faint prickling sensation on the back of my neck, recalling the Native women at the fort who’d taken Prim and me into their fold and the racial slurs my father had endured— but I said nothing.

“Don’t fret, Mrs. Hawthorne. We will make our trades with this tribe, replenishing our water and harvesting the timbers to replace our damaged spars, in a timely manner. And you’ll be back in your husband’s arms before you know it.”

I turned away and retreated to my compartment, wondering if the ambivalence was evident as my eyes clouded over.

 ~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** What starts as a friendly trade transaction takes a violent turn.

 **NOTES:** _Rupert's Land_ was the massive territory established in 1670 by England's King Charles II, who granted a trading monopoly of the region to the Hudson's Bay Company (officially named _The Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into Hudson's Bay_ ). Also established in 1670, the HBC is still a major retailer with department stores across Canada, making it the oldest, continuously operating company in North America. Rupert's Land covered approximately one third of present-day Canada, surrounding Hudson's Bay.

The _Métis_ are people of First Nations (Native) and European descent.

Fort George is located at present-day Astoria, Oregon. It was originally named Fort Astoria after its founder, John Jacob Astor (who created the Pacific Fur Company). It was renamed when it was taken over by the Montréal-based North West Company. After years of intense rivalry, the NWC and the HBC merged under the HBC name in 1821. I have taken some liberties with history by having Gale, a HBC clerk, already established at Fort George in 1820. Fort Vancouver is in Vancouver, Washington, and Fort Simpson is near Prince Rupert, British Columbia.

The _chief factor_ was the highest-ranking officer of a HBC district and was stationed at the principal "factory" (trading post) within the district. A _chief trader_ was next in authority at the post or was in charge of a tributary post. Lower-ranking officers and clerks made up the balance of the _commissioned gentlemen_ of the HBC.

A marriage _à la façon du pays_ (marriage _in the custom of the country_ or _country marriage_ ) refers to the partnerships formed between the men of the fur trade and Native women without the formalities of European clergy or state.

Measles (rubeola) outbreaks were frequent in 19th-century England, especially in highly populated cities where the contagion could easily spread. Pneumonia is a common complication.

Malaria outbreaks in the area surrounding Fort Vancouver reoccurred over several summers but reached its peak in 1830. One estimate is that the epidemic killed between 85 and 90% of the region's Native populations. Though many Europeans contracted the illness, few died because of greater resistance. Pregnant women, however, were especially vulnerable. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts as a friendly trade transaction turns deadly. Peeta makes a desperate move.

**Chapter 3**

**Peeta**

Captain Crane insisted that the Nootka chief and the dozen men who escorted him leave all weapons in their canoe before boarding the _Tribute_. They complied with little concern, throwing off their mantles to show they had nothing to hide.

Even so, it was impossible not to be intimidated. They were tall men, and their painted, bronze-hued torsos were powerfully built. Though it was only the third week of March, they seemed impervious to the chilly air despite their near-naked state. We may have outnumbered them on the _Tribute_ , but we were less than thirty men compared to the many Nootka in the canoes and the hundreds more on shore, so, even unarmed, they had little reason to fear us.

Once proper introductions were made, the captain explained our needs. In a mix of simple English and pantomime, Captain Crane showed the chief our damaged main mast and hull and pretended to drink water from an imaginary cup.

Chief C’awa’quu’as— the Nootka leader’s name I learned— smiled. “Yes, water and many trees.” With an imperious gesture to the forests behind him, he assured us he was willing to trade.

The captain, his shoulders pinned back, his chest out, and an uncharacteristically gregarious smile pasted on his face, invited the chief and his men to dine with him and his officers. Mr. Boggs did not smile, but remained tense. His eyes alternately studied the painted faces of the men before him, the canoes surrounding the _Tribute_ , and what was happening on the shore.  As the Nootka were led inside, he whispered something to Mr. Mitchell behind our guests’ backs. The second officer, in turn, whispered an order to the leader of the watch.

During their meal, I kept busy at my forge, doing what ironwork was needed, though my attention drifted to the activity in the village, which was mostly centred around dozens of wooden racks.

I counted twenty large wooden buildings with shallow-pitched rooflines. They were of mostly uniform width— about thirty feet— but varied in length to well over a hundred feet, from my best estimation. There were carved poles and the largest structure had a decorated entrance, but it was too far away for me to make out the specific details. It made me wish that I could join the men who’d be going ashore, so that I could examine the village more closely.

A couple hours later, the captain, our two officers, and the Nootka delegation reemerged on deck. Everyone seemed in good spirits. Mr. Boggs instructed some of our crew to load the long boat with axes and saws. The men left to harvest one of the impressive evergreens to turn into the spars and lumber for our repairs. The captain had woollen blankets— one for each Nootka guest— brought up from the hold along with a jug of molasses for the chief. He presented them to the Nootka leader, who accepted the items with a courteous tip of his head.

I may have been curious about the Nootka, but I soon learned that my metalwork was a source of great interest to them as well. Chief C’awa’quu’as and his men gathered around my forge, and I took the opportunity to demonstrate my skill. With the captain’s approval, I handed over a finished dagger for the chief’s inspection.

His dark eyes penetrated mine from his superior height. “ _Wocash, wocash_ ,” he declared. Nervous about what he meant, I bit my lip, uncertain how to respond. “Very good,” he translated for my benefit.

Captain Crane ordered that a few pieces of my handiwork be brought from below to offer in trade along with what had already been given. As our guests disembarked, each man received a knife, and the captain indicated to the chief that the dagger in his hands was his to keep.

The scene was repeated the next day when C’awa’quu’as and his men returned, but this time they were bearing thirteen salmon— one from each of the Nootka contingent. The crew’s eyes grew wide at the sight, and murmurs rumbled around the deck. After months of salted rations, fresh fish was a welcome addition to our limited diet. Captain Crane indicated for the gift to be handed over to our cook, and once again he, our two officers, and the Nootka men retired to the captain’s quarters to dine together.

I overheard one of Chief C’awa’quu’as’s men address him as _Tyee_ , which I deduced was a term of respect. As I puttered by my forge during their meal, I reflected on the dress and degree of ornamentation the men exhibited, both the ones who accompanied the chief and the ones who remained in the canoes.

All the men wore some kind of jewelry. The warriors who came aboard had nose rings— some were made of copper, while others were carved from what appeared to be shiny shells, possibly abalone. The lesser-ornamented men in the canoes had the centre of their noses pierced with a long, thin stick or reed, or possibly bone, giving me the impression of a cat’s whiskers. The chief and his men had a preference for copper bracelets, while the others wore ones made of decorated leather.

It suggested a hierarchy, so I decided that _tyee_ meant high-chief or possibly _king,_ and that the men who attended him were his lieutenants or under-chiefs. The men in the canoes held a lower position in the social order.

My stomach growled as the scent of cooked salmon permeated the ship, making me salivate, eager for the crew’s turn to eat. When both sets of leaders returned to the deck, the tyee pointed at the sky where a flock of migrating ducks flew overhead before dropping down into the forest near the village.

“Many _nah’tach_. Good hunting,” C’awa’quu’as declared.

Picking up on the cue, Captain Crane called for a fowling gun to be brought up from the hold. With great flourish, he handed the elegant, long-barreled piece to the king, expressing his appreciation for the salmon. The chill that had afflicted me three months ago returned. It was the same gun he’d used to shoot the albatross. The king smiled and nodded in approval as he ran his fingers over the lovely walnut stock.

I caught a momentary twitch in the captain’s smile when the tyee requested powder and shot as well. Once the canoes were out of hearing distance, I overheard the captain inquire about the progress of the work on shore.

“It’ll take another day for the men to cut the wood into usable dimensions, Captain. And then more time to complete the repairs,” Mr. Boggs replied.

The captain sucked in a breath, expelled it like a frustrated bull, and instructed him to urge the men to work with haste.

The next day, C’awa’quu’as and his chiefs paddled up to the _Tribute_ with a half dozen ducks for us.

I heard the captain mutter to Mr. Bogg’s under his breath as the canoe drew near, “If these heathens have their way, we won’t have anything left to deliver to Fort Simpson.” He turned to Mr. Mitchell. “Instruct the cook to ready himself to prepare another dinner.” It wasn’t difficult to surmise that he was finding the daily gift exchange to be a tiresome imposition. “We only are wanting a little wood and water, but it is apparently going to require a whole lot more of our precious supplies and time to satisfy this need for cultural propriety.”

I guessed the captain didn’t think the timber, salmon, and now the ducks— no matter how much we appreciated them— were worth the price.

C’awa’quu’as and his men came aboard, weaponless as usual, except for the tyee’s new fowling piece. In addition to the ducks, the chief presented the captain with a fine sea otter pelt. Captain Crane accepted the birds and the pelt politely, though I didn’t miss that his smile was strained at having to maintain this protocol.

But his concealed irritation flared into indignation when C’awa’quu’as handed back the gun with a frown, claiming it was _peshak_ , which I took to mean _bad._

The captain’s usual self-control slipped, his patience having grown thin, as he made a cursory examination of the weapon. With his chin up and the trace of a sneer, he shoved the otter pelt in the tyee’s chest, suggesting if he was displeased with our gift, he could keep his. Turning his back on C’awa’quu’as, he gave Mr. Boggs a peeved expression. The first officer did not change his expression, but his wary eyes darted between his commander and the Nootka leader.

Captain Crane took a few deep breaths to regain his composure and turned back to the tyee. With a brittle smile, he spoke in measured and polite tones. “My apologies, Chief. It was our sincere intention to present you with a token of our gratitude for your hospitality. I can assure you the fowling gun was in immaculate condition. An experienced warrior would know that a sophisticated weapon, such as this extraordinary specimen, necessitates an adept operator who appreciates how to wield it without inflicting untoward damage.”

The captain may have been insulted by the assertion that his gift was deemed unworthy, but the tyee’s reaction was something altogether more worrisome. Captain Crane and our officers were whispering with each other, so they did not see his face grow hard, his dark eyes narrow, and the way his hand gripped his throat as if he were strangling an erupting volcano. His men grew tense, clustering around him in readiness.

In that moment, I understood what our captain did not. In his arrogance, Captain Crane had insulted the tyee by addressing him in lofty language— calling him both a liar and an ignorant savage— confident that his English was sure to be beyond the tyee’s grasp. C’awa’quu’as may not have had great proficiency conversing in English, but he comprehended far more than he spoke. My heart started to beat painfully in my chest as I witnessed the deterioration in rapport before my eyes.

His veiled rant over, the captain smiled and declared through thin lips that I, his armourer, would take care of the repairs. He tossed me the gun and, with renewed diplomacy, invited the chief to dine with him as usual.

A quick inspection of the gun revealed that the lock mechanism required some minor attention. But, lacking proper tools, it would’ve been difficult for the Nootka to fix it. I headed below to make the adjustments.

I’d finished the repairs and was waiting beside my forge by the time the leaders came on deck after their meal. C’awa’quu’as crossed over to me, leaving the captain in his wake. I held the gun out to him, keeping my head down in what I hoped he interpreted as an act of respect. My eyes darted to the captain in time to see his jaw clench. No doubt he wished to reinforce his authority by presenting the weapon himself, but, fearing the spirit in which the captain would do it and afraid to further insult the tyee by ignoring him, I offered it myself.

The tyee took the gun from my outstretched hands, and he asked my name. With his head held high and a haughty set to his posture, Captain Crane took it upon himself to speak before I could answer for myself, giving the introduction. The Nootka leader’s eyes never left me.

“ _Pee-ta._ ” C’awa’quu’as repeated it slowly, looking at me with such intensity my mouth went dry. I swallowed and pointed at the part of the gun I’d repaired. Summoning my voice, I described the problem, assuring him it was a simple problem to fix. The corner of his mouth curled up, and I released a breath, seeing that he was mollified. Mr. Boggs and Mr. Mitchell discreetly exchanged a relieved glance as well.

His face a hard mask, Captain Crane appeared to be less impressed. Nevertheless, with polished manners, he called for several more hatchets and daggers to be given to the Nootka in exchange for today’s gift. C’awa’quu’as didn’t smile, but gave a regal nod as his men accepted them. It didn’t escape my notice that he did not offer the valuable otter pelt in return this time. The Nootka climbed down the ladder and paddled away in their canoe.

It may have been a disrespectful breach of cultural protocol or the gulf in language that precipitated the breakdown between the leaders, but I got the distinct impression that, under the decorous surface, the two men would not have been enamoured with each other even under ideal circumstances.

By evening of the following day, we’d completed repairs to the ship, and the captain seemed almost buoyant as he went around inspecting the work. When he left the deck, Mr. Boggs informed the crew that we would set sail the next day.

The dawn mist was yet to lift when the morning watch signalled that canoes were approaching. I sprang from my berth and dressed. After more than six months at sea, my hair had grown long enough that it was necessary to keep it out of my eyes when I worked. Raking the annoying mop back and tying it with a ribbon, I rushed from the fo’c’s’le in time to see C’awa’quu’as board with his men.

Captain Crane, no doubt at greater ease now that our repairs were complete, was in a more congenial mood. He informed the tyee that we were soon to depart and thanked him once again for his hospitality. The Nootka hadn’t brought gifts today, which, I guessed, made the captain even happier, since he wouldn’t need to reciprocate.

Instead, C’awa’quu’as suggested that, because we were so fond of the salmon, his men in the canoes would be pleased to take several of our crew to a place where more could be acquired for our journey. Our jovial captain declared that it was a very good idea. The tyee said he and his chiefs would keep us company until they returned.

After the incident with the fowling gun, I decided it would be prudent to inspect the other muskets. Leaving a collection of blades still in need of final sharpening and polishing beside my forge, I went below to my steerage work station and waited for our crew to return with the fish. With harmony restored between the leaders and our departure at hand, I hummed a cheerful tune as I went about my work.

Around noon the voices of our men, returning after their fishing expedition, reached my ears. Mr. Mitchell called for our crew to help hoist the long boat back aboard the _Tribute_ , so I prepared to go up top to see the Nootka visitors one last time before we lifted anchor. I’d just reached the narrow stairs leading to the deck when I heard a whistle, like a flute or some other small wind instrument.

And that’s when the screaming started.

I flew up the stairs, but, before reaching the top, I came face to face with a Nootka warrior, his painted visage twisted in fury, his eyes gone wild. He gave a blood-curdling roar and raised one of my hatchets in the air.

I spun away, trying to retreat, but not before I felt my head yanked back as my attacker grabbed a handful of my hair. The ribbon came free, and I slipped from his clutches. If not for that, the blow that hit would’ve likely killed me. Instead, the blade cut deeply into my forehead from my hairline to just above my left eye. Twisting to defend myself, my arms as shields, I tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. Landing on my back, my head hit the floor with a painful thud. The force of impact knocked the wind from my lungs.

Blood from my wound filled my eyes. Panic, pain, and confusion enveloped me. I gasped for breath, staring up at the sky through the open hatch. I was immobilized by terror, hearing the agonized wails of pain and shouts of triumph as the violence raged above me. Finally able to suck a few gulps of air into my starved lungs, I blinked, and, using my sleeve, I did my best to swipe the blood from my face. But, when I attempted to get to my feet, the room spun around me, and I lost my balance, collapsing back onto the floor.

A dark shadow blotted out the light above me. It wasn’t the man with the hatchet— it was the tyee who stared down at me. But, instead of descending to kill me as I expected, he closed the hatch. Left in the dark, I passed out.

I was trapped in the strange place between dreams and wakefulness. The dream world was nightmarish, filled with high-pitched shrieks and blood, but I resisted waking out of fear that it would prove to be all too real. The creaking of the hatch and blinding light informed me I was, in fact, awake, but everything was now eerily quiet. Out of the heavy silence, I heard the rough-textured, commanding voice of the tyee.

“Peeta. You come up.”

I stumbled, trying to comply, but my legs were weak— from fear or loss of blood, I couldn’t say. Possibly, it was both those things. Strong hands gripped my arms on either side, and two of the warriors hauled me up onto the deck. I was deposited on my knees in front of their king.

I kept my head down, scared to see what had become of my shipmates. My left eye was swollen shut and the sunlight stung the other, my head was dizzy, and it ached from my injury. Worse yet, the deck was slick with blood. Each drop that fell from the gash in my forehead added to a pool that was not my own. I sucked in a breath, expecting that my death was imminent.

The tyee ordered me to look up. Many of his warriors crowded around us, weapons raised, hatred burning in their faces. Mired in the blood of my crewmates, they clamoured to add mine to the mix. Along with daggers and hatchets of my making, I saw knives belonging to my mates in many of their hands. I recalled the strange whistle while our men were bringing the long boat aboard. Had the Nootka used that moment of distraction to disarm and attack them? Likely.

C’awa’quu’as silenced his warriors with a wave of his hand. He pointed to my left, and I gasped in horror. Along the railing of the quarterdeck, a line of severed heads were impaled on spikes, their lifeless eyes staring at me. My stomach heaved, and I averted my gaze in horror. The tyee grabbed my chin and ordered me to look at them and count.

The first was Captain Crane, his eyes rolled back and his mouth frozen in a scream. One man’s head was practically cleft in two, but the red hair could only belong to Darius. I counted, aloud. Twenty-six.

“All?” C’awa’quu’as demanded.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to think. Twenty-six. Our captain, two officers, and… how many? Twenty-four crew. My brain felt like lead as I pushed myself to do this simple mathematical calculation. Twenty-six plus me equalled twenty-seven.

“Yes,” I whispered.

 _No_. I was forgetting something.

“Peeta no lie?”

I furrowed my brow, knowing I needed to be certain. I nodded, confused why it didn’t feel right.

“Wocash,” the tyee said, his voice low and calm. He laid a hand on my jaw, tilting my face to look at him. He pointed to his men, the weapons in their hands, threatening. The chief held the fowling piece between us. “You make blades, fix guns— you live.” His eyes pierced mine. “You serve Tyee. You say no—” I started to shake. “—You die.”

I didn’t want to die. So I nodded. Two men shoved my face down to the boards. I was being ordered to kiss their king’s feet as an act of submission. I did what was required, shuddering at the blood splatters on his feet and ankles. I flinched when the tyee placed a warm hand on my shoulder.

“Good, Peeta,” he said. I might’ve thought his voice was kind if not for the gory events just passed.

He lifted me to my feet, my body trembling under his hands. He gave a command, and a moment later the tyee draped Captain Crane’s long greatcoat over my shoulders. He used a scrap of cloth to wipe away the blood from my face, and then, removing my silk neckerchief, he tied it around my still-bleeding forehead. A mug was brought to my lips, and he urged me to drink a little rum from the ship’s provisions. It helped, but only a little.

The tyee pointed to Friendly Cove. “You take ship there.”

I wasn’t an expert sailor, and the Nootka knew even less, but I directed them to weigh anchor and raise enough sails to do the job. The rising tide and the small breeze assisted as I took the helm. The tyee pointed to the stretch of beach on the south side of the village. I ran the _Tribute_ aground on the sandy shore, where she lay hidden behind the point of land that hooked out into Nootka Sound. C’awa’quu’as gripped my shoulder and smiled. I hoped that my expression passed for a smile and not the grimace it surely resembled.

I was taken ashore and deposited near the edge of the beach. Men of the village gathered around, murder in their eyes. I was certain that, if it weren’t for the tyee, they would’ve enthusiastically slaughtered me along with the rest of the crew. But C’awa’quu’as ordered them to aid the warriors plundering the _Tribute_.

Curious children approached to get a look at me, and several of the women crouched down and petted and stroked my head, speaking in compassionate tones. Despite their comforting gestures, I couldn’t stop shaking. Behind them, other villagers climbed onto the rooves of the large wooden houses, cheering and drumming on the planks with such thunderous noise the throbbing in my head intensified. The blow from the hatchet and my tumble to the foot of the stairs left me dizzy, and I worried that I might throw up.

The tyee stood close by me, watching as men swarmed the _Tribute_ , stripping her of everything of value to them— the muskets I’d been working on in my steerage station, food and cooking supplies from the galley, every bit of metal— iron, brass, and copper— that could be salvaged. My tools were laid in a pile beside me. They raided the officers’ cabins and the fo’c’s’le, carrying to shore trunks and small chests filled with personal items.

C’awa’quu’as selected an item from the loot and approached a handsome woman who was attired in a simple frock trimmed in otter fur. She wore several necklaces strung with some kind of white, tube-shaped shells and was adorned with copper earrings and bracelets, many more than any other woman in the village from my observation. I reckoned she must be his queen.

Though addled, I couldn’t help notice the tender way they greeted each other. Exchanging a look of adoration with her, the king presented his queen with a small wooden box, painted with pretty flowers. I had difficulty reconciling this moment of loveliness between them with the carnage from moments earlier.

Next, the men began to bring to shore all the items for trade stored in the hold— weapons and tools, many bolts of fabric, blankets, casks of rum and jugs of molasses, boxes of candles, looking glasses, various trinkets— all of which would never reach their intended destination.

In a flash, the fog of my confusion cleared, and I remembered the elusive detail about our crew. My eyes grew wide at the exact moment I heard a woman’s scream.

An involuntary shout of “No!” escaped my lungs, so loud and decisive, that everyone, even the tyee, stopped to stare at me.

C’awa’quu’as narrowed his eyes, but, instead of punishing me for my outburst, he held up a hand and called out a command to stay his men from whatever they were doing to Mrs. Hawthorne on the _Tribute_.

He shouted another order, and she was brought to shore. As soon as her body hit the sand, she writhed and screamed and fought against her captors. Two men grabbed her feet and dragged her up the beach to within a few yards of me. Her dress and petticoats bunched up over her thighs as they went. She twisted, kicked, and lashed out with her arms. In the process, her stockings were pulled from her legs. Laughing as she howled and thrashed, one man attempted to pull a stocking down over his head, while his companion wrapped the other around his neck. When she saw me, I pleaded with my eyes for her to stop struggling, and she froze.

The tyee crouched in front of me, but he said nothing. I realized that if I didn’t make a convincing case now, all would be lost. So I sucked in a breath and looked him in the eye. I pointed at him and then at his queen. He regarded me with a quizzical expression.

“Your wife,” I said.

I repeated the gesture but instead indicated to myself and then to Mrs. Hawthorne.

“She is _my_ wife.”

C’awa’quu’as quirked an eyebrow at me.

“You love your wife?” I asked earnestly.

Apparently amused and willing to humour me, the king smiled and answered with a regal tip of his head.

Straightening my shoulders and lifting my head, I held my arm out towards Mrs. Hawthorne. Mustering every scrap of courage inside me, I declared, “If you hurt her, if she dies, I will kill myself.” I pointed at my tools. “Then you will have no blacksmith.”

At first, C’awa’quu’as scowled at my threat, and I wondered if I’d overplayed my hand. I shrunk down before him, and, with as much heartfelt emotion as I could generate, I clutched my chest as if I was in great pain, which wasn’t so hard to fake, and asked him, “You’d die for your wife?”

The muscles in his face relaxed at my meekness, and he glanced at the queen. He turned back to me and answered, “Yes.”

I gazed at Mrs. Hawthorne— blood-smeared clothing askew, her once elaborately-braided hair a loose mess. Her grey eyes were wide and alert as she watched me. I laid my hand over my heart, finding it easy under duress to summon a few tears, and said, “Me, too.”

C’awa’quu’as’s penetrating gaze scrutinized me. I grew evermore unsettled as the seconds ticked by while he considered his decision.

“I will die,” I repeated and made a motion, as if to sweep away my tools into the sea, in case he’d misunderstood my threat.

He grinned and, giving a hearty laugh, he reached over and slapped me on the back. “Yes. Good. Peeta’s woman lives.”

I fell prostrate at his feet in gratitude, which seemed to please him even more. He patted the top of my head and then called out a command. The villagers not employed emptying the _Tribute_ of her valuables or pounding on the rooftops scattered to the houses. Lying on the beach, I turned my head towards Mrs. Hawthorne, whose eyes were fixed on me. Though her tense face was half-buried in the sand, I think she smiled a little.

 ~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Peeta's ruse to save Katniss's life unites them as they face captivity together.

 **NOTES:** During my research, I was thrilled to discover a guide to the Nuu-Chah-Nulth language. Wherever I have used their vocabulary, I have done my best to translate the phonetic spelling of the words from the dictionary into the English alphabet as faithfully as I can. I have done this to make it simpler for readers, not to diminish the importance of the original language and its proper pronunciation.  

This chapter is based on the fate of the American fur-trading ship, _Boston_ , and her crew in 1803. My version of events leading up to and including the attack is based on John R. Jewitt's description of what happened.

RE: spelling and vocabulary choice. I have on occasion opted to use older versions of English words (such as 'rooves' instead of the modern 'roofs') to better fit the period of the story. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Katniss**

My throat seized shut when they pulled me from my hiding place in the hold. I tried to call out, but I couldn’t breathe. The brightness of the hazy sky assaulted my eyes on the deck, causing them to tear up. I blinked, and the lifeless heads of the crew loomed over me, their distorted faces trapped in the agony of their murder. I found my voice at the exact moment I knew the futility in crying out. There was no one to save me.

I screamed anyway.

Two men dragged me across the deck, the colour red streaking the cream, blue, and brown fabric of my dress. I was tossed in a canoe. Lying in the bottom of the narrow vessel, all I could see were muscular arms wielding paddles over me and the steel grey sky. I could hear drumming and frenzied voices cheering from the shore. My writhing body was dumped on land. Hands grabbed my ankles, my stockings pulled free from my legs as I struggled. The grit of sand abraded my face as I was towed across the beach.

I’d come close to death before. I might’ve already been dead and drowned if the young armourer hadn’t interrupted me. How long ago was it that I’d stood by the rail that dark night, staring down at the water? A week? Or more? I’d lost track of time being cooped up below deck.

I cried out again— not from fear of dying, but from terror at what worse fate awaited me. I kicked and clawed and screamed. And hoped that I could provoke my captors to kill me quickly.

Perhaps I would’ve been successful if I hadn’t seen the boy, battered and bleeding in a crumpled heap in the sand. There was such desperation in his face when he lied, begged, and bargained to spare my life. He even threatened to kill himself. The Nootka chief— I recognized the man as their leader by his air of authority— believed him. Peeta was so convincing, I believed him, too.

I went still. The boy looked so vulnerable that only one thought formed in my muddled mind. I couldn’t leave him here alone. To abandon him inside this nightmare would’ve been too cruel. For his sake, I stopped trying to die.

Peeta Mellark had saved my life. Twice.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I didn’t place much value on my life anymore. Maybe I owed him. I didn’t like leaving debts unpaid. Or maybe he rekindled a small, protective part of me that made it impossible to let go. His unswollen eye locked onto me, and I tried to give him an encouraging smile. But his face was filled with such anguish that I almost cried.

The leader gave a command, and Peeta and I were lifted to our feet. Many villagers sat on top of the buildings, singing and drumming on the roof planks. The hammering thunder echoed around us, reverberating through my body and turning my bones to rubber. My legs failed to support my weight as we were hauled through the entrance of the largest building in the village. The noise inside was worse— deafening, like being inside of a drum, which, in a way, we were.

A large hall, about fifteen feet wide and well over a hundred feet long, ran down the middle of the house. The hall was flanked on all sides by many rudimentary compartments of varying sizes— all open to the centre.

We were forced to our knees a short distance from the largest compartment. The Nootka leader stood in front of the space surrounded by several of the men and women who’d joined him on the beach. I glanced around the cavernous room. A group of women were gathered in the middle of the hall, stooped over, preparing food. Smoke from the large firepit escaped through an opening in the roof. Naked children stared at us with curiosity. Women glanced at us with wariness. Men glared at us with animosity.

My hair was in disarray, but rather than attempt to pin the loose strands into place, I pulled out the pins and let it all fall, creating a curtain of dark hair to help obscure my face. I was a small child again, believing that if I stayed very still, I could become invisible.

Peeta released a sigh of relief when the drumming above us stopped. He was slumped over, clutching his forehead. A red trail ran along the eyebrow of his swollen eye and down the side of his face. If the noise was disturbing for me, it must’ve been torture for him. I forgot about my need to remain inconspicuous.

“Let me look at that,” I said, reaching out. He leaned towards me, and I gently peeled back the neckerchief tied around his head. The dark silk material had disguised the severity of his injury. I hissed when I saw the ugly, gaping wound and how his blond waves were clotted with blood still oozing from the deep gash.

“It’s bad?” he murmured.

I sucked in a breath to collect myself. “I’ve seen worse,” I lied, securing the nearly useless bandage back in place. I’d sometimes helped Prim when Henry needed her assistance with patients. But I wasn’t good at dealing with these kinds of things. It didn’t change the fact that this wound needed attention.

My dress was mired in blood, but I wore several petticoats that were relatively clean. The middle one, durable and stiff with cording to give my skirt volume, wasn’t going to work. But the others I wore over and under it were plain linen that would suffice. The petticoat that lay closest to my skin had ripped when I’d fought the warriors on the beach, so I tore off a section and wadded it up.

“Here. I’m going to untie your neckerchief. Hold this against the cut, for the bleeding.” Peeta obediently followed my instructions, and I reapplied the neckerchief, securing it all in place.

It needed stitches, but what could I do? At least the extra piece of cloth soaked up the blood. Bile burned the back of my throat as I looked down at the gory stains covering my dress. I clenched my eyes shut to block out the reminder of how it’d gotten that way.

“Tyee.”

I looked at Peeta. He’d spoken in such a quiet voice it was difficult to hear him. “Pardon?”

He made a subtle motion with his head directed at the chief. “Tyee,” he whispered again. “That’s what they call him. I think it means king. His name is C’awa’quu’as. The tall woman with all the necklaces, sitting nearest to him…” I followed his gaze to the woman closest to the tyee. “I’m pretty sure she’s his queen.”

I studied her, observing how she sat with her back straight and her chin high. I saw the way she smiled when the king caressed her cheek.

There were other women clustered near them. Though C’awa’quu’as greeted them in a similar fashion, they deferred to her.

“They are all wives.”

“What?” Peeta whispered in surprise. He looked at the women sitting around the king, then he turned back to me. “All nine of them?” His mouth gaped in shock.

I nodded. “But you’re right. That one is the queen.”

“Oh.” His good eye grew wide as he looked at the ground, digesting that bit of news.

Despite the vast space, the hall became crowded as many more men, women, and children entered the building. Through the veil of my hair I watched them file past us. I figured about twenty-five families made up this household, possibly a hundred and fifty people. Some of the men— warriors who’d terrified me on the _Tribute_ — sat near their king, guarding us with their fearsome stares.

I twisted around to scan the rest of the crowd. My knowledge of Native traditions was limited, cloistered as we were at the fort. But I’d learned enough about it to recognize the social structure that existed. It wasn’t only evident in their attire, but in the nature of the loot they prized most. Metal objects— tools, blades, trinkets— copper being of special interest— and an arsenal of muskets were prominently displayed, but especially in the leader’s space. I discreetly slipped the simple, gold wedding band from my finger and tucked it inside the pocket hidden in the seam of my skirt.

It was eminently clear why Peeta had been spared.

_What is my worth?_

Peeta had tied his survival to mine. It was the only thing that gave my life any value amongst these people.

The dominant men of the tribe appealed to C’awa’quu’as, stabbing their fingers in our direction, faces contorted in vexation. Their displeasure with our presence was obvious. But the tyee dismissed their protests.

“I think they are the chiefs,” Peeta said. “Like Mr. Boggs and Mr. Mitchell on the ship.”

He’d noticed the hierarchy, too. It became more pronounced when the meal was served. Long platters were heaped with food, and wooden bowls were filled with a dark golden liquid. The tyee, his women, and his children had food placed before them first. Other men, the chiefs as Peeta called them, sitting nearest C’awa’quu’as, were served next. Down the length of the hall it went, the lower-ranking people eating from their platters and bowls.

Peeta and I were made to join a group of about forty men, women, and children at the end of the hall. Humbly attired compared to the rest of the occupants, they were meek, keeping their heads down. The women servers carried a platter and bowl with the remaining food to our group and sat amongst us.

The bitter truth brought a scowl to my face. I knew who these people were. They were like us. Captives. My father came to mind as I recalled the stories told to him by his mulatto mother about her ancestors. The ones who’d been brought to the West Indies from Africa. How, even though she and my father were freeborn, the term still stuck.

“Slaves.”

Peeta turned to me, and my eyes travelled over our group.

“All of us,” I added, making a discreet circling gesture with my hand at the people sitting with us.

Peeta glanced around. “I wonder if we all belong to the tyee,” he said and dropped his gaze down to the food.

The platters held boiled fish— herring, from the taste. My stomach lurched when the contents of the bowl assaulted my nose. I recognized the putrid scent from years ago. It was train oil, rendered from whale blubber and used for illuminating lamps and lubricating the machinery in the cotton mill where I’d laboured before leaving Manchester for my new life across the sea. Stored for even a short time, it acquired a rancid odor.

Peeta recoiled at it, too. I glanced around. Those near us seemed puzzled by our reluctance as they dipped the fish in the foul liquid and eagerly ate it. It wasn’t just the food. Given what we’d endured that day, how could we have any appetite? After a few mouthfuls of fish, neither of us could bring ourselves to eat any more.

The meal over, the king gave an order, and Peeta and I were ushered into a small compartment, roughly seven feet in width and depth. There was limited privacy. The only things separating each chamber were wooden storage boxes or low walls, no more than three or four feet high.

Our space was bare except for a few planks butted up against the dividing wall on the left side. Slightly elevated above the dirt, they formed a platform which served as a bed. A small fire ring, absent of any wood, lay between the bed and the partition on the opposite side. Gaps between the exterior wallboards provided the only source of the now-fading daylight, as there were no windows in the building. It made my spartan accommodations aboard the _Tribute_ look luxurious by comparison.

We sat side by side on the narrow sleeping platform, silently watching the activity in the communal hall as the feast turned into celebration with songs and more drumming— this time on planks with hollowed-out bottoms. Peeta lifted his hand to his head, but he didn’t say anything.

For such a rare prize, the tyee couldn’t seem to care less about his blacksmith. The cool indifference to Peeta’s suffering made my face burn with indignation.

I smelled the rain before I heard the first drops patter on the ground. The dirt floor remained dry, thanks to what looked like a solid roof, but I could feel a cool, damp draft intruding from outside through the gaps in the walls. A memory of cold nights when I was first orphaned came to mind. I wrapped my arms around my body, even though the heat of my anger towards the tyee and his cohort was still keeping me warm.

Peeta misinterpreted why I hugged myself, because he began to shrug Captain Crane’s long, woollen coat from his shoulders.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve given this to you earlier. I don’t know how I… it was thoughtless...” he stammered, bothered by his oversight.

It hadn’t been of concern to me, so there was no need for his embarrassment or apology. We were both numb from shock. But one look at Peeta, and I knew he needed the coat far more than I did. All he had on beneath it was a thin shirt and the loose sailor’s trousers the crew wore. His feet were bare like mine. I saw how the shirt, damp with his blood and sweat, clung to his frame. Though he was broad across the shoulders, and I’d seen on the ship how his arms were corded with muscles from his work, he had the lean body of a young man with growing left to do. He looked too pale. Any ruddy colour from days exposed to sun and wind had been erased by the trauma and blood loss.

In contrast, my dress, with its full sleeves and many layers, offered me more coverage.

“No,” I said, stopping his hands. “My clothing is warm enough. You need to keep that on.” He made a feeble attempt to protest. “And because of _that._ ” I pointed to his wound and tugged the coat back around him.

He started to say something, but stopped when a little boy of perhaps six years of age— one of the tyee’s sons— approached to examine us more closely. He squatted down in front of Peeta and touched a brass button on the captain’s coat. Peeta smiled at the child, and, ripping several from the coat, he used a piece of loose thread to string them together. He offered them to the boy.

The child grinned and laughed, running back to his mother, the queen, to show her. C’awa’quu’as gave us an approving smile. The chiefs glowered in our direction, but they stopped short of dampening the young prince’s happiness or displeasing their king by disparaging Peeta’s gift.

It occurred to me that Peeta’s friendly gesture had been purposeful. Even in his debilitated state, he was seeking to win the tyee’s favour and support. Just like he had on the beach.

Watching the child playing with his string of shiny buttons, I was about to commend Peeta for his resourcefulness when I spied my sewing box beside the queen. It gave me an idea. Determined to take advantage of the goodwill Peeta had created, I got to my feet, heading for the hall.

He reached out to grab my dress to stop me. “No. Don’t,” I heard him say as the fabric slipped through his fingers.

I didn’t care. Peeta needed help. My life hinged on his wellbeing, too. If he died from blood loss or infection, there’d be no protection for me.

With nothing to lose, I approached the front of the longhouse where C’awa’quu’as and his family reclined, watching the festivities. They stared at me, the women in surprise, the tyee with disapproval in his eyes. But, when I knelt down in submission before the queen, no one made a move against me.

With a trembling hand, I pointed to Peeta and then touched my forehead. Next, I gestured to my painted sewing box. I pantomimed using a needle and thread. Curious, the queen reached for the box and placed it on her lap. I reached to open it, but my hand was swatted away.

I had a flash of temper that, for a brief moment, burned away my fear. That box was mine! It had been a birthday gift from Prim. Sewing wasn’t my favourite activity— it reminded me too much of long, grueling hours, sweating in the dusty cotton mill. It was a chore I did out of necessity. And, unlike my sister, I found needlework especially frivolous. But, along with the tedious but more-practical quilting, I’d valued the quiet times she and I’d spent together engaged in such activities. Whenever I held a needle in my hands, I felt a little closer to her.

Suppressing my emotions for Peeta’s sake, I mimed opening the box. She did as I indicated, and I pointed at the needles secured to the lid’s quilted, silk lining. The queen reached for a round-tipped darning needle and, shaking my head, I pointed to a slim, sharp-pointed one. She removed it but kept it in her hand. When I dared look up at her face, her eyes were fixed on me but held no malice. Instead, she waited to discover whatever I had in mind.

I continued my pantomime until the queen had selected a small skein of embroidery thread— a vibrant shade of green that caught her fancy— and my scissors. I needed one more thing.

“Water,” I said, pointing to her cup.

She frowned, uncertain what I meant. After I mimicked washing my face, she sent one of her servants to bring a wooden bowl filled with water from near the fire. I was thankful to find it was warm.

The queen gave me the bowl, but when I rose to return to Peeta, she stopped me with a stern word. She looked at the tyee. He nodded his approval.

She gave an order to one of her servants to whom she handed over the sewing materials. The servant followed me back to our chamber. Many of the people stared at me as I walked past them, despite the celebrating that continued around us.

I set the bowl on the ground beside Peeta, and the servant knelt closeby, watching. I untied the neckerchief that held the wad of fabric in place.

“You shouldn’t have taken that risk,” he whispered.

“No choice,” I replied and removed the neckerchief, bracing myself for the sight.

Once the rag had been rinsed in the warm water and wrung out, I cleaned the wound as best I could, including his blood-matted hair. While Peeta held the rag against his forehead, I asked for the needle and thread. The servant looked over the partition wall to her mistress, who gave her consent. It was hard not to give a huff of exasperation. I was hardly a threat armed with only a small needle and a pair of scissors. To attack would be suicide.

I sucked in a breath and, whispering an apology to Peeta, went to work.

Though he winced as I stitched him up, he didn’t complain. Instead he watched me with his open, blue eye. I concentrated on the green embroidery floss, telling myself how much the pretty shade reminded me of green apples.

“Have you done this before?” he asked. When I frowned, he added, “You’re good at it. You’ve got a healer’s touch.”

I gave a snort. “You’re my first. But, lucky for you, I’ve plenty of experience with a needle, and my brother-in-law’s a doctor, so I’ve learned a few things.” Oddly, the tension in my shoulders eased a little after that.

I snipped the thread of the last stitch and handed the materials to the queen’s servant, who carried them back to her mistress. The celebrations were dying down by then, and the residents of the building were retiring to their chambers.

Needing a clean, dry bandage, I decided that, rather than tear away a new strip of linen from under my dress, it would be simpler to remove the damaged petticoat altogether. With my back to the wall, I reached under the layers to untie the lacing at the waist. The voluminous material of my skirts draped over, covering my front, but it was impossible to accomplish the task with complete modesty. I chose to ignore how Peeta gaped at my legs before dropping his gaze to the dirt floor.

Once divested of the petticoat, I ripped another, longer piece free, placing the rest of the material at the foot of the bed. Using the scrap of fabric we’d used earlier to stanch the wound, I dabbed the incision to give it a final cleaning. The green stitches had darkened from blood, but my handiwork appeared to be doing the job. It would likely leave an unfortunate scar, marring Peeta’s handsome face. But the wound would have a chance to heal properly now, and that was the important thing. I wrapped the bandage around his head and tied it as gently as I could.

Rinsing the neckerchief and the scrap of petticoat in the bowl of water, I wrung them out and hung them to dry over the partition wall behind him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Peeta said as I leaned in to adjust the bandage.

I quirked my eyebrow. “I think you should call me Katniss, seeing as how we’re married now.”

His cheeks tinted faintly pink— it was a relief to see a little colour in his ashen skin. “I’m sorry about that. It was the first thing I thought of.”

There was a quality in Peeta’s quiet, steady voice— not quite the apologetic tone from before, but both shy and forthright at the same time.

 _The first thing?_ There was a sudden tightness deep inside my chest. I composed myself and replied, “No. It was a good choice.” I felt an urge to smooth back a wave of hair from his good eye but changed my mind. “Clever, actually. Otherwise they might’ve separated us.”

He nodded and sighed. The dark circles under his eyes and the slackness in his face made him look like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You should lie down,” I said. “You need to rest.” Fatigue was overtaking me as well. “We both do.”

He slid to the edge of the platform, reaching a hand down to the ground to steady himself.

I grabbed his arm. “What’re you doing?”

“I’ll sleep down here. You should have the bunk.”

I couldn’t decide if I was touched by how sweet and well-mannered a boy he was, or annoyed at this aggravating display of gallantry.

“There’s no way I’m letting you sleep down there in the dirt. I can’t have you getting that wound filthy after all the trouble I’ve gone through to patch you up.”

He shook his head. “It’s not right for you to sleep down there.”

I looked at him with a straight face. “I wasn’t planning on it.” His good eye blinked at me, perplexed at my meaning. “You’ve lost a lot of blood and it’s getting cold. We’ll have to share the coat. It’s the only blanket we have for now.” I paused and then added, “Besides, we have an act to maintain.”

He hesitated, averting his gaze. Was it out of guilt over his ruse? But then, without another word, he removed the coat, slid back towards the wall and swung his legs up onto the platform. Thankfully, he didn’t have any energy to argue, because neither did I. The situation was awkward enough as it was.

I took my place beside him and draped the coat over both of us. Reaching down, I tucked my skirts around my bare, dirty feet. We lay in silence as the rest of the people settled in for the night. The fires burned low, and I stared at the ceiling, watching the way the faint light flickered over its surface.

“Don’t worry. They’ll come for us,” I whispered, hoping my voice sounded braver than I felt.

“How long before they’ll start looking, do you think?” Peeta asked.

“I don’t know. Soon,” I said.

For tonight, it was enough hope for both of us to cling to. How long would it be before they missed us? How long before Gale missed me?

Peeta rolled onto his side and faced the partition, likely out of decency, I figured, given the impropriety of our sleeping arrangements. I did the same, facing the opposite wall. We lay with our backs to each other, both of us clutching our edge of the heavy woollen coat, tucking it around our bodies.

 _How are we going to be saved?_ My mind screamed.

Even if they found us, it would take many well-armed men to go against C’awa’quu’as and his hundreds of warriors. A force that was now also armed with the weapons from the _Tribute_.

Suddenly, I was fourteen again, without money or parents, helpless and scared with Prim depending on me. Only there was a difference. I had Peeta. His life held value for these people, leaving me dependent on him for survival… by pretending we were something we weren’t. For better or worse, we were in this deception together.

“Tomorrow we’ll figure things out,” I murmured to myself, trying to make a list in my head of all the things we needed, trying to devise ways to get my hands on them. I felt the warmth created in the narrow pocket between me and Peeta and was grateful we at least had the coat.

But then the full weight of our captivity settled over me along with the fingers of chilled air seeping in through the walls. Like the ocean air that night on the _Tribute_. It had no numbing effect this time. Despair bubbling up, I clamped my hands over my mouth to stifle back the sobs. If I was going to cry, now was the time, when no one could witness my weakness. I started to shake as I wept, and I worried that I would wake Peeta, but he remained mercifully asleep.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Peeta and Katniss get their first taste of life as C'awa'quu'as's slaves.

 **NOTES:** Slavery was a common feature of the west coast Native tribes during this time period— acquired either through inter-tribal warfare, trade, or individuals being born into the position.

While I haven’t included it in this story, Native slavery did exist in and around Fort Vancouver. Some of the Native women brought slaves with them when they married company men to act as servants. Some accounts accused company men of buying slaves for wives, however this was likely a case of misunderstanding the custom of paying a bride price to the wife’s family.

At first the practice of owning slaves was tolerated as part of Native culture, but eventually it was discouraged by the HBC leaders at Fort Vancouver. Britain’s “Slavery Emancipation Act of 1833” made it official, and it was declared that every person residing inside the fort was a free British subject. But outside the pickets, the leadership had little success in curtailing the practice.

Sir James Douglas, a HBC officer at Fort Vancouver (later Chief Factor of Fort Victoria, and eventually the first Governor of the Colony of British Columbia) was dedicated to ending the practice of slavery. Born to a Scottish merchant father and his country wife who was described as a "free woman of colour" (she was also referred to as mulatto or creole), he spent the first decade of his life in British Guiana (present-day Guyana). Having witnessed slavery in the West Indies and experienced the racism of being of mixed Scottish-African ancestry, he was likely motivated by personal reasons in addition to HBC policy. Douglas’s early life is my template for Katniss’s father, Mr. Everdeen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta and Katniss get their first taste of life as C’awa’quu’as’s slaves.

**Chapter 5**

**Peeta**

It was cold when I awoke. Shivering, I tugged the coat a little tighter around my body. When it gave no resistance I panicked. I rolled over and sat up too quickly, causing a stab of pain in my head that made me groan. Ignoring it, I swung my legs over the edge of the bunk and, on unsteady legs, got to my feet.

My eyes— I could see a little out of the swollen one now— searched the big house. Scared and confused, I thought that maybe I’d dreamt the whole thing up, and I was alone after all.

“Katniss!” It came out like a choked whisper.

Several women were huddled around the fire in the middle of the hall. They stared at me but turned to the queen when she gave a command. One of the women came forward with a small bit of fish, timidly holding it out. But I didn’t want to eat. I needed to find Katniss. I brushed past the woman and stumbled towards the door.

The sun was high, and I blinked back tears as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. When things came into focus, I noticed the sky was blue and streaked with lacy clouds. The village was abuzz with activity. A few people paused to look at me standing in the doorway of the tyee’s home.

“Katniss!” I called out again, this time with more force.

“Peeta?”

My shoulders slumped in relief when I heard her voice in the distance. I scrunched my eyes, trying to find her in the crowd, when she emerged from behind one of the racks I’d seen from the ship. It was covered in evergreen branches laden with a whitish substance. There were many of these racks, and each had a group of women toiling over them in some kind of unknown task.

As I crossed the yard to get to her, Katniss stepped away from the rack to come meet me. Angry voices yelled out, and she stopped in her tracks and scowled. I closed the distance between us.

“Are you all right?” she asked, touching the bandage on my head, her eyes searching mine.

“I woke up. You weren’t there.” I paused, feeling embarrassed for sounding so pathetic. “I was worried about you.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “I was worried about _you._ ” She glanced over her shoulder to where Tyee C’awa’quu’as sat with some of his men. “I think he was, too, because he let you sleep some more.”

“But not you,” I said.

“No. They put me to work first thing.” She turned to the wooden structure behind us. “I’ve been stripping herring spawn from the branches. They had them in the water over there.” She pointed to a spot out in the cove a short distance from the beach. I saw baskets on the ground filled with the tiny eggs. “Your eye is looking better,” she said. “How’s your head feel?”

“Still a bit dizzy, but not as bad as yesterday.”

Katniss patted my arm, her touch easing the tension in my body. She looked at the tyee and his men. They were speaking in heated voices. “I’m pretty sure they’re arguing about us,” she said. “I wish we knew what they were saying.”

I decided then and there to try and learn as much of their language as I could. The tyee rose when he noticed us and walked in our direction.

“I’d better get back to work.” Katniss muttered, but at the last moment she turned back, smiled and added, “It’s good to see you up and around.”

C’awa’quu’as stood before me and grabbed my chin. Lifting the bandage, he examined my forehead and nodded in satisfaction. Peering into my eyes, he said, “Today, you work.”

I waved my hand to the ship where she was beached. “My forge is on board—”

He pointed behind me, to the top of the beach nearest his house. “No. You build a fire there.”

Most of my tools had been brought from the _Tribute_ — hammers, files, chisels, tongs, the bellows, even my heavy anvil, but the forge was large and bolted to the deck. I spent the rest of the day collecting rocks and constructing a primitive replacement. Other slaves were instructed to bring me a large pile of wood, split and cut. I found a flint amongst my tools, but the day was growing late, so I decided to leave burning the wood into the coals needed for powering my forge until tomorrow.

I was prepared for the work, but a concern weighed on me. How long would we be held captive? All of the finished hatchets, knives, and other tools were in the tyee’s possession along with the muskets and blunderbusses. There would always be repairs to be made, but I needed to ensure my continuing usefulness. And a big part of that meant an adequate supply of metal to work.

At the tyee’s direction, every bit of metal that could be salvaged from the ship was made available to me— brass, copper, all the remaining bars of iron and steel. Given the volume, I was confident it would last a long time— rescue would arrive before I ran out of forging material.

By the time we were ordered inside the tyee’s longhouse for the evening meal, Katniss and I had regained our appetites. We were served a meal of the raw herring eggs along with dried fish, boiled and served the same as the previous night. And more of the horrid train oil. Despite our hunger, the oil was still unpalatable.

C’awa’quu’as frowned in displeasure when he saw we weren’t eating it. He marched down the hall to where we sat, and my heart started to pound with fear at what kind of punishment was coming. I felt Katniss shrink back and draw a little closer to me. But, instead of raising a hand to us, he pointed at the bowl.

“Why you not eat?” he demanded.

I shrugged, not sure how to tell the man that I didn’t approve of his provisions. I knew from experience that insulting the tyee would be unwise.

He grabbed a handful of fish, dipped it in the oil and thrust it into my hands. “Eat,” he ordered, gripping my shoulder and giving me a shake. “Make you big and strong.” He gripped his own broad shoulders to emphasize the point.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, brought the oily fish to my mouth, and choked it down. When he glared at Katniss, she did the same. Satisfied, the tyee returned to his end of the hall.

Later that night, as Katniss and I lay on our bed with the coat wrapped around our bodies, we talked. I’d seen Katniss bent over those racks for hours, and I told her I was sorry she was made to do such menial work.

She gave a huff. “It’s nothing new for me.”

That surprised me, coming from someone of Mrs. Hawthorne’s position.

“Getting used to eating train oil is going to be a challenge,” she said. “But the tyee is right. The diet does seem to agree with these people. They look healthy and strong. It would be good for you, I think. It’s important to our welfare.”

I wondered if I looked weak to her. From now on I’d do my best to eat the stuff. But I couldn’t help add, “Fine, but only if you eat it, too. _I_ can’t afford to let _you_ wither away, either.”

She rolled her head my way and grimaced.

“I think it must be an acquired taste,” I mused. “You know, like some of the foul-smelling cheeses my father enjoys back home.”

“That’s a positive way to look at it,” she chuckled. I shrugged and grinned, pleased she found my comment humorous. She expelled a breath and tucked the coat under her chin. “You’d think it would be easier. I’ve known what it’s like, tolerating food because I was so hungry I didn’t care. A person will eat anything to make that emptiness go away.”

When had she gone hungry?

Katniss sighed. “I should find feeling powerless familiar, too. We’re on the bottom in this society, like how it was for me back in England.”

“I thought you were a lady,” I blurted out, and immediately regretted the way it sounded. I was about to apologize, but she spoke first.

She huffed cynically. “Hardly.”

I furrowed my brow, wondering what she meant. I would’ve asked, but she rolled away from me, preparing to sleep. There were many curious things about Mrs. Hawthorne… Katniss. It made me want to learn more.

 ~~~~~

Over the next few days we toiled as we were directed. Once my forge became operational, it wasn’t so different for me than my work on the _Tribute_.

By the end of the first week my chores had expanded. In between my smithwork, I was sent to help drag felled trees, some over a distance of more than a mile, through the forest to resupply firewood for the tyee. But one of the timbers I was instructed to hollow out with my hatchet and chisel to shape into a canoe. It was strenuous, physical work, but I enjoyed creating things, so it wasn’t an unpleasant task watching the canoe gradually taking shape.

I couldn’t help think the demands on Katniss were harder, despite what she’d hinted to me about her life back in England. She laboured beside the free women of the village, but most of the backbreaking work was left to the slaves. In addition to harvesting the herring spawn, Katniss’s chores consisted of hauling endless amounts of water, foraging with the women for roots and other edible plants, and helping strip cedar bark from trees, from which they made rope and cloth for their garments. When she wasn’t gutting and cleaning whatever fish the men brought in, she spent long hours bent over, digging for clams or prying loose shellfish in the tidepools.

Katniss may have been acquainted with physical labour, but she’d been at Fort Vancouver for quite a few years living as a Trading Clerk’s wife. She never complained, which made me admire her even more.

During those first days we learned more about our captor and our captivity. Our initial terror ebbed into wariness. Regardless of what others in the village thought of us, we had the tyee’s protection. So long as we remained in his favour, it was dull monotony, not constant fear, that constituted the life of a Nootka slave.

The Native diet was difficult for us to get used to, but we would’ve eaten even the train oil out of hunger when food was no longer made available to us.

C’awa’quu’as’s celebration feast after capturing the _Tribute_ had been shared with everyone. For three days he sent a small serving from his own platters and bowls for our meals. But he soon grew tired of providing for us. On the fifth day, we went hungry.

We came to understand that the plants and animals, the streams, the ocean— everything that was of value on land and in the water— belonged to the tyee. He shared it all with his people. The chiefs and commoners fished, hunted, and gathered, giving a portion of their bounty to him out of respect.

But it wasn’t so simple for slaves. They were required to labour on behalf of their masters. That left us precious little time to provide for our own needs. The other slaves managed better because they were adept at gathering food and made sure to set enough aside from their required contributions to their masters for themselves. If Katniss and I were to keep from starving, we would need to do the same.

One concession the tyee gave, once I’d satisfied his daily requirements, was to allow me to make items for trade. I used my free time as productively as possible, beginning by fashioning simple items such as fish hooks. I graduated to jewelry.

I learned their tastes in designs by studying the artwork in the village— the carved poles in the longhouses with their animal and human heads, the carvings they made in the stocks of their newly acquired muskets and in the wooden boxes used for storage and cooking, and the inlaid abalone shell decorations along the gunwales of their canoes — all of which I found quite appealing.

Soon, my jewelry— bracelets, anklets, earrings, and nose rings— especially those made from bits of the prized copper, became popular.

I had Katniss collect shells when she was digging for clams to add to my creations. We discovered that _hiixwa_ , the tubelike shells worn by Yaqtsin’iq, the tyee’s queen, were of greatest value— almost a form of currency similar to copper objects. They would’ve made excellent embellishments for my trade items, but we weren’t able to get our hands on any of them.

Katniss learned to identify edible plants and where to find them from the other women. She made sure to set aside food from her gathering, and I traded for the things she couldn’t harvest. It was a start, though barely adequate for our needs. We both gazed with longing at the fish and fowl that augmented others’ platters.

“My father taught me to use a bow,” Katniss said as we were getting ready to leave the longhouse one morning. “Mind you, only shooting at targets.”

She nudged my shoulder and tipped her head at a bow and quiver leaning against the wall in one of the chambers across the hall. Her pretty grey eyes sparkled as she stared at them.

“I wish I could get my hands on one of theirs. A little practice, and we could eat more than roots, fish eggs, and clams. We could trade for something besides dried herring or a bit of salmon… or train oil.” She shuddered mentioning the last item, even though we’d come to rely on it to satisfy our hunger. “I wonder if the tyee would let us have a weapon like that.”

“Other slaves are allowed to hunt with them. Spears and knives, too. I don’t think he sees us as much of a threat.” I’d seen no sign of resistance amongst the other slaves.

“True. And besides, we’re supposed to be self-sufficient,” she added.

“Do you think they’d let a woman hunt with one?” I hadn’t seen anyone but men use a bow.

She frowned. “Probably not.”

It was a problem I was determined to remedy. “Maybe we can trade for one. And then, you and I could go out and hunt together. No one has to know it wasn’t me that got it.”

Her grin told me everything I needed to know. I made it my mission to get her that bow. After a few inquiries that day, I figured out how many of my goods it would take to trade for one. It wasn’t going to happen right away, but the more we could live off of what Katniss gathered, the sooner it could be ours. I told Katniss what I’d learned that evening over dinner. She was pleased.

“I noticed something else,” I said as we ate.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Only one wife for the chiefs.” Katniss looked up from her food. “The tyee. He’s the only one with more than one wife.”

She smirked. “ _That’s_ what you noticed?”

The way she regarded me with her amused expression made me blush.

“It’s all right,” she said, absentmindedly fingering the gold wedding band I knew she kept hidden in her pocket. “I noticed it, too.”

~~~~~

A little over a week after our capture, my head wound had healed enough for Katniss to remove my stitches. I ran my finger over the raised scar tissue, certain it must look unappealing.

“It’s not too bad,” she said after inspecting my face. “The scar makes you look fierce. Strong and fearless.” She smiled at me, and I grinned back, even though she likely only said it to make me feel better.

By the middle of the second week, I had enough to trade for a bow for Katniss. It would take longer to get a quiver of arrows, but the prospect of improving our diet perked up our spirits. We needed other things as well, and relying solely on my forging work made it a painfully slow process.

But Katniss found a way to improve our situation. C’awa’quu’as summoned her to the longhouse when one of his older sons sustained a bad cut to his hand. Yaqtsin’iq gave Katniss her sewing box, and the tyee ordered her to stitch the boy’s wound the way she had for me.

She wasn’t allowed to keep the sewing box, but, with her husband translating for her, the grateful queen asked what she would like as a reward. We were desperate to wash our stained clothing, and Katniss’s dress wasn’t the best for most of her chores. So, in exchange for aiding the prince, we received clothing made from woven cedar bark cloth— a mantle for me, and a frock for her.

When I thanked her, Katniss groaned. “I’d much rather use my sewing supplies for sewing.” She scowled. “It’s not as if _she’s_ doing anything useful with them other than admiring the box.”

I felt bad for her because I’d received preferential treatment. The Nootka men didn’t grow beards. What did grow on their faces they plucked out with disdain. Only the tyee wore a thin moustache, a mark of distinction. Though my facial hair was fair, it was growing in thicker than these men, and it appeared to offend the tyee. But, realizing the impracticality of plucking in my case, he entrusted me with a shaving kit— a straight edge razor, brush and cream, a strop, and a looking glass from the ship. The kit likely belonged to one of the officers. I appreciated the tyee’s gift, but, evidenced by how she fixated on it, that sewing box held greater importance to Katniss.

“Maybe that’s something else we can try and trade for,” I offered.

The idea came to us at the same time— looking at all those bolts of fabric from the ship, sitting in piles in the tyee’s chamber.

“If I could show the queen how I could make garments to their liking—”

“—You’d have something valuable to trade, too,” I finished.

But Katniss wasn’t certain how much interest it held for them— they seemed content to drape the fabric around their bodies like their simple mantles, capes, and skirts. Though they liked the colourful textiles, it was difficult to say if they’d be persuaded to wear sewn garments. The natural water-resistant cedar cloth they used was a more effective shield from the rain which fell almost daily.

Another thought occurred to me. “Do you know anything about sails?” The tyee had ordered that all of the _Tribute’s_ sails be salvaged, though nothing had been done with them. “Maybe he’s thinking of rigging his canoes with them.”

Mentioning sails brought Darius to mind.

_Nothin’ good will ever come of this infatuation._

It’s what Darius had told me as he repaired the torn sails after the storm. I missed him and wondered what he’d have to say if he could see me and Katniss now. Probably something colourful and embarrassing.

“Not really, but they’d be fairly basic for a canoe. It might be enough for me to earn back my sewing box to keep.”

“It’d be good for you to show them that you’re indispensable, too,” I said. Her hand, the one holding her cedar dress up to her chest, spasmed a little. “But we probably won’t be here long enough to worry about any of that,” I hastened to add.

The next day we approached C’awa’quu’as with our sail-making scheme. He gave Katniss enough sailcloth and sewing supplies to test her skill.

Things were looking up for us. We had no idea how long we’d live as captives, but improving our situation infused us with cautious optimism as we awaited rescue.

 ~~~~~

We grew more acclimated to the Nootka diet. We still didn’t like the train oil, but we learned to get it down without gagging. We enjoyed the clams, which we steamed. I never thought I’d miss the salted rations from the ship, but when we boiled fish in saltwater it improved the taste. Roasted roots and newly sprouted greens rounded out our meals.

But the best surprise came a fortnight into our captivity. I happened to see several chiefs eating something from one of the chests taken from the _Tribute_. After sampling it they spat it on the ground in disgust and were about to toss the box away, when I recognized what it was.

I approached with caution, knowing they would’ve preferred the tyee kill me along with the rest of the men from my ship. With as much indifference as I could feign, I gestured for them to give it to me. They frowned, suspicious of why I would want such an objectionable thing.

I knew their low opinion of me couldn’t compete with their desire for the metal fish hooks I offered in trade. They were valued for their strength compared to the wood, bone, and shell ones they used. But I worried their disdain for me would cause them to deny me something I desired. So, when they hesitated, I turned to go back to my forge, my hooks in hand, as if it meant little to me either way.

To my relief, they called me called back. Replacing my smile with a look of boredom, I turned around and strolled back to them, and the item was handed over in trade. I forced myself to breathe, trying to appear calm as I returned to work, setting the box aside, pretending I’d already forgotten about it. But, the whole time, I was terrified that if they knew how precious it was to me to have it, to be able to give it to Katniss, they would take it away.

When we gathered inside the longhouse that evening, I was so excited to present Katniss with my gift I could barely contain myself over dinner.

Katniss scrutinized me as we ate. “What’s got you so happy?”

I grinned and said, “You’ll see. It’s a surprise for later.”

I waited until we’d retired for the night. From under the coat I drew out the box and showed it to her.

“Oh, Peeta! Is that… chocolate?” she gasped, her mouth gaping and eyes wide in disbelief. We leaned close together, shielding our treat and our faces from view, as if it was a great secret. “Even in Fort Vancouver it wasn’t easy to come by sometimes.”

“They were going to throw it into the ocean,” I whispered. “But I rescued it. For you.” I opened the box and held it out to her. “Have one.”

“Let’s eat one together,” she said. Doing our best to stifle the sounds, we both groaned with pleasure as we savoured the taste. Katniss actually giggled, and she looked so happy I thought my heart would burst out of my chest.

We were determined to make the chocolates last as long as possible. We told ourselves by the time we reached the last ones, we would be rescued. But as the days went by, and the box grew emptier, I could see Katniss growing anxious. It was as if she were reluctant to eat any because reaching the end of our supply and not seeing a ship would mean we were wrong. I tried to be encouraging, saying that coming to the end of the box meant we were that much closer to going home.

 ~~~~~

The tyee tried out his new sail on one of his canoes, using a simple mast and boom rigging. Taking the canoe across Nootka Sound and out into the open ocean, he expressed his satisfaction with the results, instructing Katniss to make several more.

We’d debated what to request as a reward— assuming the tyee would offer one. It came down to a decision between the arrows and her sewing box. One would help feed us, but the other would improve Katniss’s worth to the tyee. It also held sentimental value to her.

I grinned ear to ear when she returned to our compartment, proudly clutching the precious sewing box, now hers to keep.

Katniss sat back on the bunk and pulled the coat around her shoulders. “If we could get our hands on a few yards of sailcloth, just for our use, maybe I could make a mattress for us so we wouldn’t have to sleep on these hard planks.” She rotated her shoulder to release a little tension.

“That would be nice,” I answered.

She nodded as the idea took shape. “And blankets, too.”

We went to bed, and I dreamed of sleeping under proper blankets on a soft mattress. But mostly I dreamed about how nice it was sleeping next to Katniss.

The next day, I was able to trade for a cedar cloth blanket to replace the greatcoat. It was surprisingly soft, though Katniss and I would have preferred to get our hands on the more luxurious woollen blankets from the _Tribute’s_ inventory.

 ~~~~~

After a month among the Nootka, we started to think more about our imminent rescue. If it hadn’t been for the storm, we wouldn’t have anchored at Friendly Cove. The Hudson’s Bay Company conducted the majority of its trade out of their various forts along the coast, finding it more efficient to have the fur traders and tribes come to them. So, even though ships travelled up and down the coast, we knew we shouldn’t expect many would bother to stop here.

But we would be long overdue by now, and we were certain Katniss’s husband and others at Fort Simpson would be searching for us. We never said _if_ a ship arrived at Nootka Sound, only _when_.

We talked about what we should do. How could we let them know we were alive and being held captive? And, more disturbing, how would our rescuers react when they saw the remains of the _Tribute_ on the shore?

A single merchant ship facing a whole village of armed warriors was no match at all. We could be putting another ship’s crew in danger. The tyee had shown he wasn’t to be trifled with. And yet, he’d treated us well, had even been generous at times. Could he be persuaded to give us our freedom without it turning deadly?

Every plan we devised was questionable, but I hated seeing Katniss discouraged.

“Whoever comes for us will find a way to negotiate for our release,” I assured her. But it was impossible to forget the fate of our crew.

Visitors from another village arrived to trade, staying with us for several days. They were curious about Katniss’s sails, but it was my metal work that garnered the most attention. The tyee was proud of his blacksmith slave, showing off my goods. Their chief offered to buy me, but C’awa’quu’as refused. While I pondered what it would take to entice the tyee to surrender us to our people, Katniss said I was too valuable to him. I gave him prestige and power amongst the tribes.

If they wanted metal goods, they would have to go through the tyee... Or trade at one of the company forts or with a passing ship.

It got my mind thinking that news of two English slaves might reach those searching for us through the people of these other villages. It could lead them right to us. I conspired to get near the visiting chief, to trade some of my handmade trinkets. I engraved the name _Tribute_ into several copper bracelets and anklets. None of them could read— the elaborate cursive style I used looked like decoration amidst the other designs. It was a long shot, but maybe one of our people would be curious about the ornaments and see my message.

 ~~~~~

Two days after our guests left, I was working at my forge when I heard men shouting on the beach. I looked up and gasped. At the entrance to Nootka Sound, the prow of a ship appeared from behind the point that sheltered Friendly Cove.

I froze. Katniss had been taken into the woods that morning to harvest cedar bark. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what to do. We’d come to the conclusion that our best chance was to steal a canoe and get to the ship quickly, before they reacted to our beached ship. I felt sick, standing on the edge of the sand. There was no way I could risk it— if I left Katniss behind to make contact, there was no saying what the tyee might do to her.

I searched for an alternative way to signal the ship, to at least let them know we were alive.

My dilemma was solved when I saw C’awa’quu’as and many of his men leap in their canoes armed with weapons from the _Tribute_. I knew then there would be no negotiation. While some paddled furiously out to the entrance of Nootka Sound, others remained on the beach, firing muskets and rounds of grapeshot from the blunderbusses into the air.

I was confused. It wasn’t an attack. They were doing everything in their power to dissuade the ship from entering Friendly Cove, to turn her back to open water. I couldn’t even tell if it was one of the Hudson’s Bay supply ships or one of the American trade vessels that also sailed up and down the coast. Not that it made any difference. All that mattered was that the Nootka were successful and the ship steered clear, heading back out to sea, at the violent reception. They didn’t get far enough into the sound to see the _Tribute_.

I dropped to my knees in despair, glad that Katniss missed seeing it. The canoes were returning, and I knew I had to get ahold of myself, to maintain the ruse of loyalty to the tyee I’d striven to establish. I sucked in a breath and returned to my forge, but I watched C’awa’quu’as and the men on the beach. The chiefs were arguing and pointing at the _Tribute_ , stranded on the sand in the cove. And they glared at me.

They didn’t want the news getting out that they’d captured our ship and slaughtered her crew. It wasn’t out of fear of reprisal— our presence could jeopardize the trade they wished to continue. C’awa’quu’as coveted my skills, so I’d been spared— to the consternation of his chiefs.

That afternoon, before Katniss returned from the forest with the other slaves, they set fire to the _Tribute_. As the sun set, she ran up to me, and we watched the last remnants of the vessel disappear under the water. I told her they had taken everything they wanted from the ship. And then, because I couldn’t lie to her, I told her about the rescue that never was.

The only thing I could think to say to comfort her as she quietly sobbed in bed that night was that we’d escape somehow, even if a ship didn’t come. We’d run away if necessary— leave Friendly Cove and catch the attention of a passing ship.

“We don’t know anything about how to survive in this wilderness,” she answered.

“Then we’ll learn,” I replied. We’d only been here a few weeks, and already we knew useful things. All we needed was a little hope to keep our spirits up.

But a week after the _Tribute_ was burned we were witness to a horrifying event. If we harboured any notions of escape, our courage for such an endeavour was destroyed by what we saw. It was almost as if providence had designed it for our benefit.

A slave was brought in on a canoe and forced to his knees at the tyee’s feet. I didn’t recognize him. We’d become familiar with all the slaves in the village, not just the ones belonging to C’awa’quu’as— though he had the most by far— but also those who belonged to the chiefs who lived in the other longhouses. This man was a runaway.

The commotion brought Katniss from the longhouse. She stood at my side as the rest of the village gathered to watch.

The man begged and cried, but the tyee glared at him, unmoved. Instead, his eyes grew wide and his face became flushed with anger. He gave orders, and some men rushed away. When they returned, they brought a bowl, the air shimmering from the heat rising from the rocks taken out of the fire. They’d add the hot rocks to cooking boxes filled with water to make it boil.

We watched in horror as the man was pinned down and the rocks were forced in his mouth and down his throat. He didn’t even have the air to scream. Time stood still as we watched him suffer— thrashing on the ground, his eyes bulging— until he finally grew still.

Katniss sank to her knees, her hands clasped over her mouth. I was paralyzed.

C’awa’quu’as turned to me. No longer the amiable tyee he’d been, with his encouraging words and pats on my shoulder. The man was transformed. His mouth was twisted into a cruel smile, his head held high. His dark eyes were wide and hard as they bored into the cowering depths of my soul. I understood what they were telling me.

They were sending a warning. They said that no matter where or how far I went, if I tried to escape him, to defy his will, the consequences would be beyond brutal.

I could hear the words in my head as if he spoke them aloud.

_Run away and I will find you. I will hurt you in unimaginable ways. I will kill you. I will kill you both._

_~~~~~_

**NEXT CHAPTER:**  Confronted with the reality of their captivity, Katniss and Peeta grow closer.

 **NOTES:**   _hiixwa:_ dendalium shells

 _Fur Trade and Regional Politics:_ In the late 1700s and early 1800s, Nootka Sound was an important destination for trade ships, largely due to the plentiful and highly-valued sea otter furs that could be obtained there. Mowachaht Tyee, Maquinna, quickly established himself as the conduit through which the majority of trade for the region flowed. However, by the time of this story, the sea otter population was greatly diminished and Nootka Sound was fading in economic importance. (After being nearly hunted to extinction, the sea otters in the waters off Nootka Sound and Vancouver Island are making a slow comeback.)

The Convention of 1818 (treaty) placed the Columbia District (Oregon Country) under shared American and British occupation. While American ships continued to trade up and down the coast, the British (under the HBC) established trading posts, which provided a steady supply of goods in strategic centres on the mainland of present-day British Columbia and Washington State. In addition to providing greater safety for their traders, the forts ensured that the majority of furs collected in the region flowed through HBC hands and never reached the American ships, thereby undermining American trading with many of the coastal communities. The Oregon Treaty of 1846 established the border between American and British lands at the 49th parallel west of the Rocky Mountains with Vancouver Island going to the British.

The brutal execution of the runaway slave is from Jewitt's memoir. I have, however, adapted a few details for dramatic effect.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Katniss**

The placid water swallowed the _Tribute_ , extinguishing the burning ship as she slipped beneath the surface. I should’ve been relieved to have the constant reminder of her fate erased from view, but what I felt was a severing of a thread tying me to the life and world I’d left behind and a new one, made of cedar robe, tightening around my ankles.

C’awa’quu’as had no intention of letting us be found by our people. Peeta’s secret messages etched in metal might bring a ship to Nootka Sound, but even if she were permitted to anchor here, I knew her crew would never see us. We would be hidden away, and our existence would be denied.

Peeta said it was up to us to reach them. We’d slip away, hail a passing ship before the winter seas grew too rough for them to travel along the coast. For a short time I held onto that small hope.

But watching the runaway slave suffer and die proved escaping was futile.

I couldn’t take my eyes from the place out in the open water where they’d tossed the dead slave’s body, where the remains of the crew also lay. I imagined all manner of sea life picking and tearing at his flesh, consuming his remains. I wondered what the odds were that any of those fish or shellfish would end up served to us on platters or trays. My stomach heaved at the thought.

For the first time since I stood on the deck that night back in March, contemplating drowning, I regretted that Peeta had saved me. My spirit crushed once again, I wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and stop breathing out of spite. There could be no freedom as long as I drew breath.

Peeta took the slave’s execution differently. I watched him, as did many of the villagers, when he marched back to his forge. He grabbed the tongs and pulled a large, unformed bar of iron from the coals. He hammered it with such unbridled anger and frustration— his face red and his jaw clenched, the muscles in his forearm bulging from the exertion— that sparks and small pieces of hot metal flew in all directions. Some fell to the ground, but some landed on him, leaving tiny burns on his cedar-cloth mantle. By the time the bar had cooled and he stopped, gasping to catch his breath, there was nothing but a mass of twisted metal. He threw it back into the forge and sat on the sand with his head in his hands.

I sank down beside him, miserable and defeated, watching the sun go down.

“So that’s that,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides.

“What are we going to do?” I whispered. I knew what I wanted to do, but as long as Peeta was alive, my fate— my life and death— was bound to his.

“We’re going to keep going. We’ll keep doing whatever we have to.” He scooted around to kneel in front of me. His eyes reflected the glow from the forge behind me— like orange fire in a sea of blue water— the muscles in his face tight with determination. “We don’t give up.”

It was a command. It should’ve made me angry, given my captivity, to have yet another person telling me what I had to do. To live was to be a slave, and death wasn’t an option either. But I saw something else in his blue eyes that made me reach out a hand and lay it on his cheek— the unwavering optimism of youth that I couldn’t bear to crush. He needed me to be on his side.

“All right,” I said. We rose to our feet and went inside the longhouse.

We didn’t talk anymore about escape. My eye would glance, out of reflex, at the horizon, watching for a ship. But as time past, and none came, I grew resigned to my fate.

I began to wear my hair in two simple braids, the same as the other women. Dressed in my cedar frock, and given the colouring I shared with the Nootka people, if it weren’t for the few escaped curly strands of hair, I could be mistaken for one of them.

The women taught me how to transform cedar bark into cloth. I was good at it. It was similar to working in the cotton mill, but better because we worked outside in the fresh air. We stripped and pounded the bark, dousing it with fresh water and separating out the rough material, and left the rest to bleach in the sun. When it was ready, we twisted the resulting soft fibers into strands of varying thickness, depending on its intended use. Some was made into nets, ropes, baskets, and the conical hats worn by the Nootka to shield them from the rain. The finer yarn was woven on frames to create blankets and all forms of garments.

It was a task I found cathartic. I took out all my frustrations, beating on the bark. The first day, my arms and shoulders ached, but it left me almost tranquil. I told Peeta I understood better how being a blacksmith kept him sane.

Time went by and it got a little easier. We settled into our new life.

One day I was contemplating the dress I’d worn on the ship. I still wore my chemise— it provided a soft barrier between my skin and the cedar cloth— and the petticoats gave me some added warmth. But the tight bodice and excessive fullness of the sleeves made the dress impractical for most of my chores.

I took my sewing box out from under the bed and took apart the seams, remaking the garment into a looser style, more closely resembling my cedar dress. The freedom gained from abandoning my corset was a welcome change as well.

When Yaqtsin’iq saw what I was up to, she took the dress from my hands and examined it. After much pantomiming, I understood that she wished me to make her a fabric dress. I smiled— I hadn’t even needed to be the one to suggest it to the queen.

She selected a lively red print, and I sewed a simple gown, even trimming it with shells I’d collected and little copper coins Peeta made for me. She modeled it for her husband, and C’awa’quu’as demanded I make him a cloak as well. He chose a variety of fabrics, which I pieced together the way I’d done with Prim when we assembled patchwork quilts, embellishing it in a similar manner to the queen’s dress.

He was pleased with the result, strolling around the village like a proud peacock. I doubted the Biblical patriarch Joseph had made a greater impression in his coat of many colours. Part of me resented feeding the C’awa’quu’as’s vanity. But the feeling was mitigated when the tyee’s other wives asked me to make them garments, too, eagerly trading for items Peeta and I needed. Next, a few of the chiefs’ wives approached me, yards of fabric in hand. But not one of the chiefs dared request a cloak like the one belonging to their tyee.

While I was less inclined to engage anyone, Peeta spent a portion of his free time sitting with C’awa’quu’as, or anyone else who’d engage him in conversation, learning their language. This pleased the tyee immensely. The benefits of Peeta’s success were twofold. We were better able to learn about their ways and negotiate for the things we wanted and needed. The other was that Peeta demonstrated our loyalty by showing our captor that we desired to become more integrated into the Nootka society. As a result, we were less subjected to close scrutiny.

During one of his discussions with C’awa’quu’as, Peeta learned that they called their village at Friendly Cove, _Yuquot_. He was also informed that the real name for the villagers was not Nootka— a designation that had come about from a misunderstanding of their language by the early explorers— but that these people were the _Mowachaht_.

With both Peeta and I using our skills for trade, our collection of possessions grew— a cedar cooking box— made by scoring and steaming the wood to bend it into shape— a second blanket, a cedar cloth cloak for me that shed the rain, and finally the quiver of arrows I’d been coveting!

Peeta and I took the bow and quiver out to the forest, and I tried them out. It had been a long time since I’d used a bow, so my accuracy left something to be desired. But, retrieving my arrows, Peeta assured me it would come back to me in no time. As he placed the arrows in my quiver, it occurred to me that he’d never suggested that he should be the one to learn to use the bow.

He gave me a quizzical look. “What is it?”

I smiled in reply. “Thank you for… helping me.” He shrugged as if it was nothing.

Whenever it was possible, we slipped away from the village so I could practice.

Peeta traded a lovely dagger— its handle embellished with abalone shells and intricately etched designs— for a large box, which we placed along the partition wall across from our bed. We now had a decent place to store our things.

My next trade was for several yards of sailcloth so that I could make the mattress I’d wanted so badly. It was a bit lumpy for my taste, having limited materials to use for stuffing. But the first time we laid on the cushion, Peeta uttered a satisfied groan.

Rolling his head my way, he said, “My body is going to appreciate this.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. I’d spent hours that day weaving cedar cloth on a frame, and my shoulders ached. Sitting up, Peeta rolled his head to loosen the tightness he’d acquired, rubbing a spot at the base of his neck with one hand. He’d been working for days, hunched over the canoe with a hammer and chisel.

Without thinking, I sat up behind him and pushed his hand aside. He tensed, but soon relaxed as I began to knead the sides of his neck and work my way down his shoulders. I’d noticed before, when the dampness of his exertions caused his shirt to cling to his skin, how his back and arms were well defined by muscles from the strenuous labour he performed. But it was something entirely different to feel it under my hands.

It was strange how easily we’d adapted to sleeping together, to sharing all sorts of small intimacies that were the inevitable consequences of our living situation. I’d grown used to thinking of him as my partner in the practical, everyday things. But touching him made me remember Gale. Worse, I couldn’t help draw comparisons between the two, which awoke an uneasy sensation in my belly.

My hands dropped into my lap. Peeta turned to look at me, and I rose from the bed, not wanting him to see the guilt I’m sure was evident on my face.

“What is it?” he asked, reaching out a hand and touching my sleeve.

“Nothing,” I answered, pretending to organize the stuff in our storage box.

Was it wrong of me to have done it? I told myself I was overreacting. We were living under extraordinary circumstances and simply coping in whatever way we could.

Later, as we lay under the blankets in the dark, he whispered, “Thanks for rubbing my neck. It felt good.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Let me know if you need me to do it again.”

There was a long pause, and he added, “I’ve seen how you work, too. I’d be happy to… to do the same for you… if you wanted.”

It was one thing for me to do it, but the idea of Peeta’s hands on me left me more rattled than before. I didn’t answer, pretending to be asleep. I was restless that night, feeling Gale’s eyes watching from afar, until finally I grew cross with myself. It was unfair of Gale, or anyone else, to make me feel guilty when they weren’t forced to endure what Peeta and I were going through. Especially when it was over something that was completely innocent, I argued into the void.

After that night, I was determined to do whatever made life more bearable. I realized Peeta was right, that it was best to adapt to our environment. It made things easier, and, besides, keeping up our act, pretending to be spouses, was critical to our survival.

 ~~~~~

As spring advanced, I dispensed with the petticoats. The layers were cumbersome and too hot for working outside in the warmer weather. I grew accustomed to wearing only my linen chemise to bed, the way I’d used to back in Fort Vancouver. I slept much better as a result without the extra cloying layers confining me.

I also began to wear my cotton dress more than the thicker, hotter cedar cloth one. In its refashioned form, it was neither British nor Mowachaht, but one that combined the best qualities of both.

The skirt hung to mid-calf, which kept it from dragging in the mud, and the simple sleeves ended a few inches below my elbow, which gave my arms some protection from insects while leaving my hands free as I worked. It was slightly fitted through the bodice and skirt to avoid excess fabric being a nuisance, but loose enough to allow complete freedom of movement.

Peeta and I had both been captured without shoes, and the Mowachaht didn’t wear anything on their feet. In fact, as temperatures rose, same as the children, the men often opted to dispense with clothing, including even the breechcloth at times. Nudity posed no problem for them, rather, it was practical as they were frequently in the water. As much as it made me blush to see the men, I was equally relieved that it was the custom that women remained clothed.

The tyee urged Peeta to forgo his cedar mantle as well, but he insisted it helped protect his skin from burns when he worked at the forge. But when the tyee had him working at other chores, he switched to his cooler ship attire and frequently went without a shirt. Working under the sun, his fair skin took on a burnished gold hue.

The soles of my feet toughened up, and I grew used to going barefoot. It took me back to my childhood, enjoying the feel of the earth and sand between my toes. I waded in the water and appreciated not having to fret over stockings and footwear.

I wondered at times if, like my attire, I, too, was becoming some kind of hybrid creature. In the weeks following that terrible day watching the execution of the slave, I’d discovered a strange sensation within my captivity. I’d grown somehow _lighter_. The contradiction was perplexing, but I was too busy with my many chores to give it much of a thought.

Peeta’s hair was already longer than the fashion of the day when I’d come aboard the ship. It now reached his shoulders when it hung loose. I offered to cut it, but he said it was easier to tie it back. Other than the fact it was so blond and wavy, it resembled how the other men wore their hair.

Our diet expanded with our ability to trade— cod and halibut and some of the pear-shaped roots the Mowachaht valued called _quawnoose_. They didn’t harvest it themselves— it was an item they acquired in trade from visiting tribes. When steamed, it had a pleasant, sweet flavour. Like everything else, it was served with train oil. We now scooped up the pungent liquid with clam shells, eating it like everyone else.

Hunger cured my aversion to eating shellfish, too, and I began to enjoy the steamed clams, mussels, and crabs from the cove again along with the roots and greens I gathered. But just when I was growing used to including them in our diet, all shellfish harvesting stopped. Peeta asked why, and we were told it was now _peshak_ , which meant _bad_.

One afternoon, I came from collecting water and found a cluster of star-shaped pink and white lilies tied with a bit of cedar rope, laying on top of our blankets. I picked them up, and, with a small flutter of happiness in my chest, I carried them outside. I found Peeta down on the beach, using a chisel and hammer to smooth out the inside walls of the canoe he’d been working on.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

He straightened up as I waved the bouquet at him, and he smiled. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sat down in the sand, and I knelt beside him.

“I think it must be May,” he said.

We didn’t have a calendar, but we followed the seasons the way the Mowachaht did, by keeping track of the full moons.

When I quirked my eyebrows, he added, “I remember on the ship the captain complimented you. You told him your birthday was in May.”

The captain had actually complimented Gale, if I remembered correctly, but I appreciated Peeta turning it into something sweet about me. I was thirty-one. It made me wonder how many birthdays I’d see in this place.

“I wish I had more chocolate to give you. Or I could make a piece of jewelry—”

“No,” I cut him off. “You need to save the metal for trade. I like the flowers.”

It was a simple gift, but I’d grown to appreciate such things, the little indulgences that had nothing to do with our work or putting food in our bellies or surviving. But mostly I was touched by the fact that Peeta had remembered.

“When’s your birthday?” I asked. “So I can reciprocate.”

He shrugged, saying I didn’t need to do anything. I insisted, claiming birthdays were more important at his age than mine. He looked at me, his eyes brighter than usual— likely due to the rare, clear sky we had that day— and told me he would turn eighteen the end of September.

I began to go into the woods with other women, one of my own woven baskets under my arm, to collect the first berries of the season— a type of raspberry, ranging from deep gold to orangey-red in colour. I spotted other varieties such as blackberries and huckleberries that would be ready to pick later on. Whatever we were allowed to keep for ourselves, we ate right away— a delicacy Peeta and I relished. The women pointed out salal bushes. They said the berries from these plants would be pressed between planks and dried for storage.

 ~~~~~

In early summer, C’awa’quu’as and his chiefs started spending time away from the village engaged in some kind of spiritual retreat. They would return from these frequent excursions, hair wet from bathing and their bodies streaked red from beating themselves with something rough enough to leave marks.

Their solemn demeanours were echoed by everyone in the village. The tyee fasted, which meant we all fasted with him. Because we lived under a single roof— closely packed together and with so little privacy— I noticed that food wasn’t the only thing the villagers were forgoing in this season of lent.

In the first weeks living in the longhouse, I’d been mortified by the sounds of people engaged in sex. I wasn’t the only one embarrassed, given our sleeping arrangements. Peeta would mutter quietly to himself and face the wall, unable to look at me. One night, it all seemed so absurd that I nudged him with my elbow. He turned his head to me and made a pained face. We started to laugh, doing our best to contain our snorts and giggles with hands over our mouths, which helped erase the awkwardness between us.

After that, it became no more than a mild nuisance that occasionally woke me from much needed sleep. Eventually I slept through it, or, if I happened to be awake, it barely made an impression. So, when it all stopped, we noticed.

Peeta found out that whales had been spotted off our coast. Whale-hunting was a most serious undertaking, and abstinence was demanded. Everyone was expected to do their part to ensure the village’s success.

The canoes went out for a few days at a time, but kept coming back empty-handed. After nearly two weeks, C’awa’quu’as grew ill-tempered, accusing villagers of not showing restraint. Some of the men in turn complained it was because of us, that our presence was to blame. This infuriated the tyee, but he refused to kill us as they urged.

The tyee was the only one allowed the honour of harpooning a whale. On one hunting expedition, he managed to get close enough to one to strike it with his weapon, but the tip of the harpoon broke, and the animal got away. I saw Peeta standing by the tyee’s canoe after the men returned to the village. A chief got cross when Peeta picked up the tyee’s harpoon to examine it.

Peeta’s impertinence attracted C’awa’quu’as’s ire as well, but Peeta offered to make him a steel-tipped harpoon, one that would withstand the rigours of the hunt better than the bone and shell one he used.

The tyee agreed. Peeta went to work immediately. Armed with Peeta’s harpoon tip set on the end of a long wooden shaft, the tyee and the rest of the whale hunters set out. The next day we heard singing as the canoes towed in their prize. The village gathered on the rooftops and began to chant and drum, celebrating the way they had when Peeta and I were first taken captive.

This time we celebrated with them, because the fasting was over and life would be less gloomy around the village. The whale was cut up and a great feast of blubber was held at tyee’s longhouse.

That evening C’awa’quu’as was in good humour. Peeta and I exchanged a glance. We knew from past experience he would be in a generous mood and predisposed to grant a favour to his skilled blacksmith. There was one thing we’d mused about, a bold request, but I could see by the twinkle in his eye that Peeta was going to risk it when the tyee called him forward.

“Great Tyee, our people have a tradition,” he said in Mowachaht. Though I wasn’t as proficient in speaking their language, I could follow the essence of what he said. “Like you, we set aside time to retreat in private, refraining from unnecessary work, to devote to prayer for the well being of our community.”

C’awa’quu’as’s eyes narrowed, likely gauging whether this was a ploy to get out of work, or even possibly sneak away. Peeta continued, explaining that our custom required one day in seven, every Sunday, be used for our devotions. He added that we would use the time to pray for the tyee’s continued success. To further appeal to C’awa’quu’as, he explained that we’d engage in our own form of ritual cleansing for the sake of the tribe— which in our case was simply an opportunity to bathe and wash our clothes in privacy.

I was stunned when the tyee agreed to grant us this reward, but he’d had previous interaction with Europeans, so perhaps he didn’t find it such a strange request. I was even more surprised when he agreed to Peeta’s request that we be allowed a canoe to reach our chosen destination for these weekly retreats.

Around the point of land marking the northern edge of our cove there was a smaller, deeper cove with a pebbled beach. We’d heard there was a spring fed lake a short distance inland from this spot. The lake had many arms and was a place popular for hunting fowl during the migration season. We also knew this was the location of the secret whaling rituals. C’awa’quu’as gave us strict orders as to where we were, and were not, permitted to go.

The fact that he trusted us to obey served as a reminder of how secure he was in our enslavement. He had reason to be. Peeta and I had no intention of attempting to escape or defying his orders. We knew it was too dangerous.

The next day we set out in a small canoe. We had no idea if it was Sunday, but we didn’t care. We would have one day a week to get away on our own. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a compromise we could live with.

We dressed up for the occasion— I wore my cotton dress and Peeta wore his ship’s shirt and trousers, rolled up to the knee as he pulled the canoe ashore. He offered a hand to steady me as I disembarked, while I gathered up my skirt high around my legs to keep my dress from getting wet as I waded to the beach. A few months earlier I would have felt scandalized at baring so much of my skin, but it wasn’t something I gave a second thought to anymore. I conducted myself with the same level of modesty as all the women in the village.

We walked through the forest until we reached the edge of the lake. In a basket we carried one of our blankets, some dried fish and berries for lunch, and our cedar clothing and my petticoats to wash. We’d debated bringing my bow but left it behind, deciding, as this was our first time, we would be best to not stay away too long. We didn’t want to push our luck with the tyee. Perhaps later when he had grown used to our trips.

After a bit of exploration, we found a small clearing that would make a nice picnic spot.

“You wash up first,” I said, adding that I’d use the time to forage for berry bushes or edible greens. A short time later Peeta returned with damp hair and his washed mantle over his arm. After I’d cleaned up, I saw that Peeta had gathered stones to build a fire ring. He was piling up firewood he’d scavenged from the forest.

“For next time, in case you decide to hunt, or maybe I’ll bring fishing gear,” he said. In exchange for some of his fish hooks, he’d recently convinced a few of the commoners to let him tag along in their canoe to learn their methods.

A few weeks later, on our Sunday retreat, I washed my chemise and cotton dress and hung them to dry. It was a hot, sunny day and rather than simply take a bath, I decided to go for a refreshing swim. I took my time, floating in the water amongst the lily pads and gazing up at the blue sky. I was startled that by the time I left the water, my clothing was dry. The time had gotten away on me, and I was worried Peeta would miss me and come searching.

Quickly slipping back into my clean clothing, grateful to not have to wear the heavier cedar dress, I headed for our picnic spot.

Time must have escaped Peeta, too, because I found him stretched out on the blanket, looking relaxed, soaking up the sunshine.

In the middle of the bloom-covered clearing, he’d selected a sheltered spot in the middle of a thicket of wild, pink-coloured rose bushes. The place was teeming with chirping birds, flitting from branch to branch, going after insects or seeds. But it was the many hummingbirds that were most captivating.

Peeta laughed when one of the little creatures swooped down from high above to battle with another over possession of a tall spike of lupin flowers. The clearing was filled with the attractive pea-like blossoms— their eye-catching shade of blue evoking a feeling of warmth, of something familiar, inside my chest. Perhaps they stirred up happy memories of the vibrant summer sky from when I was a child. With ferocious tweets, sharp beaks, and tiny claws, the two winged warriors tangled until the victor perched defiantly atop a slender spike, guarding its claim.

“You’re easy to make happy,” I chuckled. He was startled by my voice and sat up, blushing that I’d caught him unawares. “It’s all right,” I said and sat down beside him. “It’s nice being here. I can almost forget that… Well, you know.”

Peeta nodded, and I stretched out beside him on the blanket and closed my eyes, so I could focus on the bird song and sweet, cinnamon-like scent of the roses around us.

“It reminds me of when I was a little girl, back before everything fell apart. My sister and I would spend time out in the meadows near our home.”

“What happened?” Peeta’s voice intruded on my reveries. I opened an eye and looked at him. He was lying on his side propped up on one elbow. “Why did things fall apart?”

I sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. I didn’t like talking about those days. But we’d already been through so much together, it felt right to share at least some of my history with Peeta.

“My father was the illegitimate son of a Liverpool sugar merchant and his mulatto country wife in the West Indies.” My eyes darted over to gauge his reaction. He reclined with his head resting on his arm, an open expression on his face. “His father loved him and wanted him to receive a proper education, so he brought my father back to England to live with his white family. A year later his father returned to the islands and his other life, leaving my father behind to finish school.”

“That must’ve been awkward, living with his father’s other family.”

“It was. But the family had to abide by my grandfather’s wishes. Though my father lived a gentleman’s life— his father’s wealth insured that— his mixed-race heritage caused him to be ostracized. The only one with whom he shared a close connection was his half-sister Maysilee. They were similar in age, and she was more accepting than the rest. It was through Maysilee that he met her best friend, my mother.

“They fell in love, and in defiance of my maternal grandparents’ wishes, who of course didn’t approve, they ran away, eloping to Gretna Green, where they didn’t need their parish’s approval. My father found work as a gamekeeper for a baronet in the Dales.”

“I’ve heard it’s beautiful in the part of Yorkshire,” Peeta murmured. “That’s how you learned to use a bow— because of your father’s position.”

I chuckled. “Yes, with my mother’s approval, mind you. She made sure we learned to behave like ladies, while he encouraged me and Prim— Primrose, my little sister— to love the outdoors and nature as much as he did.”

“It sounds like a good life,” Peeta said.

“It was, until I turned fourteen and our parents died, leaving us destitute.”

Peeta’s expression changed from engrossed to serious. When he sat up, I did as well. We faced each other, cross-legged on the blanket.

I described my father’s sudden, accidental death and how my mother died from melancholia a few months later in Manchester. “Then Prim and I got the measles, and she almost died from pneumonia.”

A shiver ran down my spine despite the sun’s warmth as I recalled the decrepit room we were living in at the time, shelter we could no longer afford.

“Aunt Maysilee had passed away from consumption, and the only remaining kin willing to take us in was Aunt Sae, a cousin of my father’s father. Widowed, she’d fallen on hard times and already had too many mouths to feed. She would take us in only on condition we’d earn our keep.

“I found work at the cotton mills, but I refused to let Prim— her lungs were too badly damaged from the pneumonia to handle all the dust. But she helped care for our little cousins while Aunt Sae worked in the mill with me. We had it better than most orphans, the ones who were forced to go into the workhouses. At least we had a home with relatives.”

Peeta asked how I came to be at Fort Vancouver, and I told him I’d met Gale in Manchester. “He’d lost his entire family as well. We helped each other out. He joined the Hudson’s Bay Company to improve his fortunes in the fur trade, and I followed a few years later, along with my sister.”

“You must have loved him a lot to leave England, to give up everything you knew.”

I frowned. “My life back in Manchester was no prize. I was existing, but there wasn’t much hope for a future. And anyways, I did it mostly for Prim. I wanted her to have a chance for a better life.”

“Oh.” Peeta chewed his bottom lip the way he often did when he found something curious.

He took my hand in his and turned it over to reveal the palm. He ran his thumb lightly over the calluses I’d acquired from hours of weaving. “You’ve had to work so hard. Back in England and now here, too.”

I could feel heat flushing my face. Trying to ignore it, I said, “It’s actually better than back in England, working in the mills.”

His gaze lifted from my hand, and he peered into my eyes. “Still, a lady like you should be treated better than a drudge.”

I gave a nervous half-huff, half-laugh. It wasn’t that Peeta hadn’t touched me before, or I him, but coupled with the hushed quality of his voice, it felt different, so I pulled my hand away.

“How about you?” I asked to change the subject. “Captain Crane told me a little—”

Peeta’s eyes grew wide. “You talked about me with the captain?”

My face grew a little warm. “The captain spoke highly of your blacksmithing abilities, saying that it was the reason he took you on as armourer despite your age.”

A muscle in the cheek below his eye with the scar ticked a little. But he gave a faint smile when I added, “If anything he underestimated your abilities. The metal work you’ve done here— it’s more than functional, it’s attractive. Are all your family as artistic?”

He shrugged, but my compliment made his blue eyes flash with pride.

He told me of his father and older brother but made no mention of a mother. I suspected she must be dead, though I didn’t pry. I hadn’t mentioned Prim’s fate, either. It was too beautiful a day to spoil our conversation with more depressing things.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d received a good education. Not only could he read and write— a rarity in the sailors who came through Fort Vancouver— but his manner of speaking reminded me of my mother’s attempts to gentrify my speech.

“My father wanted me to benefit from his new wealth,” Peeta explained, “to have opportunities he’d never had.”

“Your father didn’t send your brother to school, too?”

He gave me a wry smile. “Father decided his aptitude was better served in the blacksmith shop, but he figured I’d manage all right.” I was well-acquainted with Peeta’s quick and intelligent mind. “I did well at school,” he continued. “I loved reading and studying art. I learned mathematics, navigation, history, and Latin and Greek.”

“That explains why you’re so quick at learning the Mowachaht language.” I tipped my head to the side and studied him. “But if your father went to such expense to have you attend a quality school, how is it you ended up a ship’s armourer?”

He sighed. “My father would’ve preferred that my studies led to a profitable, more distinguished vocation. But...”

I quirked my eyebrows, prompting him to continue. Peeta held out his hands for me to see, palms up.

“I didn’t want to become a barrister or a vicar or a physician,” he said. “I wanted to be like him. All I dreamt about was using my hands to create things.” His eyes peered into mine, seeking understanding.

I took his hands in mine, examining them— the calluses he shared with me, the creativity, the strength, and the gentleness in his touch he’d shown moments ago— my earlier inhibition gone.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I understand completely.” I found it impossible to imagine him in one of those stuffy vocations.

“All the reading, studying geography and navigation… It made me restless to see new places. My father became convinced it would broaden my prospects if I built a life in the New World.”

“And so you ended up on the _Tribute_ , halfway across the world.”

A hummingbird swooped down near us, chirping out a petulant protest as it tenaciously defended its territory, and we both laughed. I thought it was terribly brazen for such a small thing to be so surly. When I told him that, Peeta grinned, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight at some kind of private joke. It irked me a bit.

“What?” I demanded, but then it dawned on me what he was thinking. “You think I’m like them?” I feigned a scowl. “Gale used to say something along those lines. Back when we first got married, he complained that, despite my size, even he was intimidated when I got angry, saying that I acted like fire from an erupting volcano.”

I glanced at Peeta when he said nothing and noticed a hint of sharpness displace his usual amiable countenance. Once again I found myself comparing him to Gale. He wasn’t as tall, though judging from the amount of leg showing below the hem of his trousers, he’d grown an inch since we’d first met five months ago. More noticeable was how his body had filled out since living with the Mowachaht. Their diet and his work agreed with him. When I would rub his back or shoulders I felt a sturdiness that Gale lacked.

“I’m comfortable around fires,” he said after a pause, his easy smile restored.

I gave a chuckle. “Well that’s a good thing, being as how you’re stuck with me.” That made him grin even more, but his expression became earnest.

“We’re doing all right, aren’t we, Katniss?”

I assured him with a nod.

He lay back again on the blanket and stared up at the sky. He pointed at the birds as they continued their antics. “Watch them with me. They’ll make you smile.”

I laid down beside him. Peeta was right. I took a deep breath of bloom-fragrant, salt-tinged air and laughed when another pair of aggressive hummingbirds duelled noisily above our heads.

 _“He prayeth well, who loveth well_  
_Both man and bird and beast._  
_He prayeth best, who loveth best_  
_All things both great and small;_  
_For the dear God who loveth us,_  
_He made and loveth all.”_

“You’ve read Coleridge,” I said.

He rolled his head toward me. “He was one of the writers I read that made me dream of sailing the high seas. I thought about that poem when we came around Cape Horn, seeing all the ice, and albatrosses, too. Did you know Captain Crane shot one? I can’t help wonder if that’s why we ended up the way we did.” He grew silent, lost in thought, before continuing. “Anyway, since we told the tyee that we wanted to use Sundays for prayer, the quote seemed appropriate.” He grinned at me.

I furrowed my brow. “It’s a strange poem to inspire you to board a sailing ship.” I thought about the story and hugged myself. “The crew of the Mariner’s ship dead, while he was doomed to wander the earth telling his tale for the crime of killing the albatross.” I couldn’t help think of Prim and the guilt I carried for her death.

“But eventually the albatross dropped from the Mariner’s neck, and his guilt was lifted,” Peeta replied. “He wandered not because he was doomed, but because he wanted people to know the lesson he’d learned. He may’ve been a captive of his deeds, haunted by his experiences, but he’d learned to appreciate the value of all life, _to love well.”_

I pondered his words as we lay in silence.

“Who do you like?” Peeta asked after a while. “What’s one of your favourites?”

I raised my head, resting it on my propped up hand, looking out over the clearing towards the ocean hidden behind a wall of evergreens. In the stillness of the air I thought I could hear waves crashing up against the rocks near the entrance to Nootka Sound. “When I watched the _Tribute_ burn, I thought of Heman’s ‘The Bride of the Greek Isle’.”

 _“And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair_  
_Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare,”_ he said softly.

“You know it by memory?” I asked, impressed.

He brushed a strand of hair away from my face, and his eyes took on a misty quality as a lacy, white cloud drifted overhead. It kindled an odd quaking inside me— the intensity of his gaze, added to all the touching we’d done today.

“And you accused me of picking tragic poems,” he teased.

I thought of the heroine, Eudora, setting fire to the pirate ship, burning herself along with the privateers rather than become their captive.

“I understand her better now,” I said. “She’d been a dutiful and devoted daughter, marrying because it was expected of her. But the moment her husband was slain by the pirates and she was taken prisoner, the dormant spirit of defiance— _‘her dark resplendent eye, For the aspect of woman at times too high, Lay floating in mists’_ — was awoken to what it was like to be truly free of any kind of confinement. Rather than submit to another form of enslavement by her captors, she chose to burn herself to death along with the ship, to assert her new-found desire for freedom one last time.”

“Even freedom from the man she loved?” Peeta asked.

I wondered for a moment if he was referring to the poem or me. “ _‘So clos'd the triumph of youth and love!’”_ It was impossible to mask the gloominess in my voice. “Her youthful innocence and ideals of love were gone.”

I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It made me think about Gale, the disappointments in our marriage and the tragedies that had damaged our friendship.

And yet, I confessed, “There was a time when I wondered if I would’ve been better to throw myself on the flames when the _Tribute_ went down.”

“I know,” Peeta whispered. “I’m glad you didn’t.” I turned to look at him and gave him a small smile.

I sat up again on the blanket, trying to get comfortable. I ended up hugging my legs to my chest and resting my chin on my knees. I stared at the spot where a little stream carrying the water from our lake disappeared into the trees. I imagined it tumbling over the rock cliff down into the crashing surf.

The silence was broken when I heard Peeta, still lying on the blanket beside me, begin to quote from another poem. It took me a moment, but I recognized it was from Keats’s ‘O Solitude.’

 _“Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,_  
_Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,_  
_Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be_  
_Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,_  
_When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.”_

I released the iron grip on my legs and swiveled around to face him. A kaleidoscope of ideas flooded my mind— how I was beginning to accept that rescue may never come, how lying here watching the birds reminded me of my youth with Prim when life was kinder, how the breeze ruffled the bodice of my dress in a way my old clothes would’ve never permitted.

It was a paradox that I should feel a degree of freedom in my current circumstance. Even my separation from Gale released me from the pressure of our marriage and my failure to conceive the children we had wanted.

I thought about how Peeta had bargained for my life because he needed me. I was alive— I’d _chosen_ to stay alive. We were pretending to be something we weren’t, but somewhere within the act I knew what it was to be valued. Free of expectations, we shared a different kind of kinship. It sparked a surprising sensation of acceptance and peace. Of course, this was mostly a result of a day away from our enforced labours, a time to forget that we were still slaves. Soon we’d return to the village and I’d be reminded that it wasn’t real… or least some of it.

Peeta was right. If I had to live in exile amongst strangers, if my life meant being held in captivity, it was better sharing it with someone as companionable as him. I often gazed out at the ocean.

But I no longer watched for ships.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Katniss opens up, Peeta struggles with his attraction to Katniss.

 **NOTES:**  C _edar bentwood boxes_ are unique to the First Nations people of the Northwest Coast. They were used for cooking (as well as storage or even as burial vessels), were watertight, and often ornately decorated. 

 _Q_ _uawnoose_ is the name given in Jewitt's memoir for the edible bulb of the blue camas ( _Camassia quamash)_ lily. The golden-orange raspberry Katniss harvested are _salmonberries_ , one of the first to ripen in summer.  

The flowers that Peeta gave Katniss on her birthday are pink and white fawn lilies ( _Erythronium revolutum_ and _Erythronium oregonum)._  The plentiful lupin (or lupine) flowers Katniss describes are named after the region: _Lupinus nootkatensis_. The pink, cinnamon-scented, wild roses are Nootka Roses or _Rosa nutkana._

There was a good reason why Katniss was told to refrain from collecting shellfish—Toxic algae blooms in these coastal waters are common in the warmer months, rendering bivalve shellfish unsafe or even fatal to eat, even if cooked. The Mowachaht and other coastal people were very familiar with these natural cycles.

 **Poems quoted:**  "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by S.T. Coleridge, "The Bride of the Greek Isle" by Felicia Hemans, and "O Solitude" by John Keats.   

 **The village of Gretna Green, Scotland** became the famous destination for couples seeking to escape Britain's much stricter laws following the 1754 Marriage Act. Eloping couples would slip across to the border town where a simple, civil  _marriage by declaration_  or  _handfasting_  ceremony could be performed by anyone so long as there were two witnesses. Gretna Green marriages became legendary for its _anvil priests_ — blacksmith officiators who forged the unions. The blacksmith would bring his hammer down on the anvil, symbolizing the welding of two pieces of metal, the loud ringing declaring that the marriage was legal. The  _marriage anvil_ in Gretna Greenremains an iconic symbol of romance, and touching it is believed to bring good fortune in the affairs of the heart. 

I'm very grateful to papofglencoe who told me about Gretna Green marriage traditions while I was writing about Mr. and Mrs. Everdeen's elopement. Not only was it the historical detail I needed, but the added symbolism of the blacksmith and handfasting (the joined hands were wrapped in rope, bound by a knot representing unity— one of the origins for the idiom  _tying the knot_ ) were perfect for this story!  

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Peeta**

The first time I was awakened by one of Katniss’s nightmares was in the spring, around the time the _Tribute_ was destroyed. She’d made a plaintive cry— small, almost strangled, as if she couldn’t catch a breath— and thrashed her arms like she was grasping for something. At first I’d hesitated, not knowing what to do. But, needing to comfort her, I’d caught ahold of her hand that was closest to me and held it tightly, whispering to her to breathe until she grew calm.

She didn’t have them every night, but they were consistent. Finally, one morning after she’d had a bad night, I mentioned them. Little lines appeared between her eyebrows, the way they always did when she was troubled. She sat down, gripping the edge of our bunk.

“I hate that they disturb you, too.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “The days are hard enough as it is. I’m sorry you’re forced to share a bed with someone who keeps you from the sleep you need.”

Thankfully, she wasn’t looking at me or she’d have seen colour flood my face. Sleeping next to her, I didn’t need one of her nightmares to disturb my sleep. I’d awoken on other occasions, and not just from nightmares of my own. There were times when no amount of exhaustion could stop my mind or body from reacting in ways they shouldn’t.

“You don’t have to apologize. It doesn’t happen too often,” I told her. “And I’m not the only one who needs their rest.” But I wanted to know what frightened her. “It’s like you’re trying to call out, or reach for something. Is it a ship? Are you trying to get them to see you?”

She took a deep breath and stared with unfocused eyes across our chamber. “I’m drowning. Everything is so dark— the sky, the water— and cold, too. I can feel crabs and fish nipping me, and the waves keep filling my mouth every time I try to call out. Nobody can hear me, and I panic. Not just because I’m going to die, but because I’m... forsaken.” The last word came out as barely a whisper.

“Did you get them before? I mean, before what happened on the _Tribute_?” The struggles from Katniss’s early life must surely weigh on her.

Her eyes locked onto mine. It startled me, recognizing in them the same torment I’d seen that night on the ship.

Katniss released the bed and folded her hands in her lap. The knuckles were white from how she clutched them. “I’ve had nightmares before, though the drowning part is new.”

 _But not the forsaken part._ I saw her in my mind, standing by the rail, and realized what haunted her preceded the slaughter of our crew. And the guilt evident in her countenance told me this wasn’t the pain from her childhood.

Placing my hand over hers, I gripped them both, the same way I did until the nightmares passed. She gave me a small, weary smile.

I understood the feeling, the fear that triggered the bad dreams. While the violent death of the crew or the runaway slave figured in many of them, sometimes I held Katniss’s hand in the night because I was scared that if I didn’t, she really would slip away and leave me.

 ~~~~~

Both our nightmares became less frequent as summer progressed. We had enough to eat. Long days of drudgery were offset by the privilege of our Sundays away together. Katniss and I became less anxious around the village. The fears that fed our dreams were assuaged.

Once the initial shock of our captivity diminished, I’d seen a stubborn, passionate nature emerge in Katniss. Though she was smaller than most of the other women, I saw how she worked— her limbs were strong, her endurance was admirable, and I’d felt the strength in her fingers when she rubbed my shoulders. But it was the tenacity with which she tackled her burdens and the flashes of spirit that made her stand out.

Late one afternoon I was using my free time to make jewelry to trade. Katniss had spent her morning collecting the first blackberries of the season for the tyee’s household. She’d returned to the berry patch to pick some more just for us before dinner. I saw her run into the longhouse and, concerned, I followed her inside. She was sitting on our bed, her face in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” I sat down beside her, alarmed to feel her body shaking beneath the hand I laid on her shoulder.

She looked up at me, and, with tears threatening in her eyes and her voice wavering, she whispered, “I did something very rash. I didn’t think.”

Every muscle in my body tensed— from her distress and from fear.

She gulped in a breath. “We’d picked all the easy ones earlier— those within reach around the edge…”

The blackberries grew in masses of branches that arched and trailed over the ground, sending down roots as anchors. They could easily ensnare an ankle, and the fine, needle-like prickles covering the stems and leaf stalks would embed into bare feet if a person didn’t watch their step. I looked down and saw her feet and ankles were dotted in the telltale red marks. She didn’t resist when I pulled her legs into my lap and went to work pulling out the prickles.

“I waded into the centre of the bush, found a safe path through the brambles. I’d almost filled my basket, but there was one more cluster in the middle with the best berries. I was scared of spilling my basket, so I left it by the side of the patch. I gathered up my skirt to hold what berries I could reach, had picked a bunch, when I saw her out of the corner of my eye.” I glanced up from attending to her feet. Katniss’s face was no longer twisted with distress but with rage.

“She was stealing my berries!” she hissed.

I asked who the woman was, and Katniss sneered as she told me. She was a commoner, the lowest rank in their society other than us. The woman was imposing in size with a disagreeable temperament, and her husband had been one of the loudest in calling for us to be put to death. All the slaves were on the receiving end of her taunting, but Katniss most of all.

“I screamed at her and scrambled through the vines— I didn’t even care about the prickles— but she laughed at me and called me a _wikstup_ slave.”

I pursed my lips. We had no rights in the village and little recourse against such abuses. Her feet now cleared of needles, I ran my hand over her back trying to console her. “It’s okay, Katniss. We don’t need the blackberries.”

Her eyes flashed at me. “No, Peeta. You don’t understand.” Sliding her feet from my lap, she reached to the ground beside her and from under our bed brought up her little basket, full of berries. “I was so angry, I shoved her right into the middle of the blackberry bush, right into all the thorns! I took my berries back!” She glanced up past my head and her eyes grew wide. She gripped my arm. “Oh, no! She’s here!”

I turned to see the woman stomping up to the queen in a rage, her arms, legs, and face covered in scratches from tangling with the prickly vines. She pointed at us, and Yaqtsin’iq called Katniss over. Katniss sucked in a ragged breath and went to answer for her alleged crime. I stood a short distance away, frightened as to what consequences there would be for attacking a villager and racking my brain over what I could do about it.

But an interesting thing happened. As the woman pleaded her case— claiming she’d been viciously attacked over _her_ berries, Katniss’s fear vanished, and her temper flared up again at the lies. She could barely speak the language, but, with wild gestures and animated words in a mix of English and Mowachaht, she told her version of events.

The queen sat impassively, listening to the story as she fiddled with a shell dangling from her red dress. When she’d heard enough, she gave a huff and waved a hand at Katniss and her accuser as if she were swatting a mosquito— the whole affair deemed unworthy of her concern. The woman growled and stormed outside. And, to our relief, it was the end of the controversy.

That evening, as we ate our dinner, the would-be thief glowered from across the hall. Katniss scowled back and, with exaggerated flourish, popped a blackberry into her mouth. I couldn’t repress a chuckle.

Katniss was right— she did remind me of those ferocious, little hummingbirds.

 ~~~~~

One Sunday, when she returned from washing up at the lake, I asked Katniss what it was like for her and Prim when they came to Fort Vancouver. She smiled and said Prim made an impression right away. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful— she was so warm and amiable that it was impossible not to love her. She was proud of the fact that her sister had married well, to a doctor who adored her.

“Did _you_ marry well?”

The wistful smile vanished from her face, and her back stiffened. Her voice was guarded when she said, “Given Gale’s position, people would say I married very well.”

It was an evasive answer, but I couldn’t let it go. “I imagine that a commissioned gentleman of the Hudson’s Bay Company wouldn’t have had much competition.” I’m not sure who was more surprised when I added, “A blacksmith wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Her eyes got that wary look in them, but I covered my impulsiveness, tipping my head and giving her a self-deprecating grin.

She must’ve decided I was teasing, because the corner of her mouth curled up. “Ah, but a blacksmith who can quote poetry… now that’s an entirely different matter.”

I pointed at my forehead and joked, “And I’ve got a scar that I’m told makes me look fierce, too.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. There was nothing better than hearing Katniss laugh.

Having dodged the awkward topic of her marriage and my suggestive comment, I asked if Prim was still in Fort Vancouver. The words had barely left my mouth when all the lightness left Katniss’s eyes, and I wished I could take them back.

She told me her little sister had died the previous summer when she’d taken ill during a malaria outbreak while pregnant with her fifth child. She’d been only twenty-six years old.

I shook my head at the tragic death of someone so young. “My mother died in childbed a few weeks before my fifth birthday. So did the baby,” I said.

Katniss’s despondency for her own loss was set aside. “Oh, Peeta. I’m so sorry.”

Though the dormant sorrow from my childhood bubbled to the surface, I didn’t want to add my sadness to our Sunday. “It was a long time ago,” I replied. “It’s different for you, losing someone so recently.”

“Did your father remarry?”

“No, but he could have. He was certainly eligible. But he said refraining from another marriage was his penance.”

“It’s hard to see children without a mother. I tried to be that for Prim’s, but... I had to leave them behind.”

She _had_ to leave them. I imagined how it must’ve been for Katniss to lose the sister she loved so much after being orphaned. And then to have to say goodbye to her nieces and nephews. I still had my father and brother, even though they were far away. I missed them, but it had been my choice to leave England.

“As much as I hated parting from them to go to Fort Simpson,” she continued, “I know Henry loves them dearly. He’s a good father.”

Katniss described her sister’s children, and the deep affection she had for them was unmistakeable. I knew she must not have any children of her own, otherwise she’d have mentioned it. I wondered why. Had they died, too? I mustered the courage to ask about it. I regretted it immediately for the pain it stirred in her eyes.

She grew tense and said, “No.”

Giving no further answer, Katniss got up and walked to the edge of the meadow, leaving me sitting on the blanket.

 ~~~~~

I didn’t want to make her unhappy, so I avoided bringing up the topic after that. But it didn’t diminish my desire to unravel the mysteries inside her mind and heart. The closer we became, the more I longed to know everything about her.

I longed for other things, too. From the start she’d had an effect on me— sometimes in ways that were entirely improper.

It was too easy to indulge my imagination, visualizing what it would be like to be her husband for real. The more of herself she revealed to me, the more vivid those thoughts became. Katniss had become so entwined in my life, her substantiality imbued my dreams with an intense and intoxicating depth I found hard to resist. Or conceal.

There were nights when I was awakened from those dreams, with her lying close beside me, her thin chemise riding high on her legs as she slept, and I wanted so badly to touch her, to run my hand across her thigh. She remained unaware of my torment. I’d face the wall and try to distract myself from the state of my arousal, attempting to focus my mind on mundane things.

At first I tried thinking about my smithwork, but when I visualized applying the bellows, seeing the way it stoked the flames, it made my heart race. The rhythmic pounding of my hammer on the red-hot metal, made pliable in the fire of my forge, nearly drove me over the edge. I steered clear of those images after that. But it seemed that so many of the tasks I did had a way of evoking similar reactions.

The days were full as we laboured for the tyee or for ourselves to acquire what we needed. In the beginning, I was so preoccupied with adjusting to captivity that it was easier to control my desire. But, as time passed and the days took on a steady routine, living in the absence of English mores had a freeing effect on me.

Our leisurely Sundays by the lake provided the opportunity to give in to the feelings Katniss stirred in me. I would lie on the blanket in our favourite spot beside the rose bushes, waiting for her to return from the lake. All I could think of was Katniss, naked, her hands running over her body as she bathed herself. I’d close my eyes and envision my own hands caressing her skin, and I would succumb, stroking myself instead.

Whatever relief it gave me was short-lived. I did my best to maintain a platonic front, but my lustful indulgences left me guilt-ridden. I didn’t want to think of Katniss this way. She was married to someone else. She wasn’t free. And even if she was, it was difficult to imagine what she’d see in me. She was a beautiful, cultured woman who likely only saw me as a boy, thirteen years her junior, at best a friend in these difficult circumstances. I felt like I was betraying her on some level every time I was weak and gave in to my secret desires.

I couldn’t help believe that, if she had any idea of my private longings, it would deeply injure the bond of trust we’d formed.

So I did my best to engage her in discussions about topics of interest to both of us to distract me. I could get to know her better as we shared more about ourselves, but in a way that respected the boundaries. They were happy moments, and I tried to convince myself it was enough to fill the space inside me that yearned for more.

 ~~~~~

The days grew cool and grey with the arrival of fall. Migrating ducks congregated on our little lake, and Katniss put her bow to good use on our Sundays there. I wasn’t sure who was happier when she brought down her first kill. The tyee congratulated me when I presented him with his portion of _my_ hunt. Katniss stood in silence beside me, clutching the bow and quiver. I told her it bothered me to get the credit, but she said it didn’t matter to her, so long as we had food to eat.

As temperatures dropped and rainy days increased, we started to grow concerned about the coming winter. I recalled my first impressions of the Mowachaht in the spring, how they’d seemed immune to the chill. But even those warriors had cloaks made with fur for the coldest months ahead.

We had Katniss’s cedar cloak, but I insisted that she turn the captain’s greatcoat into a warmer covering for herself.

“But what about you?” she asked.

I liked the way she worried about me. “I’ve always handled the cold quite well,” I answered. “The cedar cloak is good in the rain. It’ll be fine for me.”

The stubborn set to her jaw told me that she wasn’t satisfied with my assurances, but she didn’t bring it up again. Instead, she made the needed alterations to the greatcoat so it would fit her. The spare material she removed from the sides was used to make a wide belt that, after wrapping the garment around her slight frame, secured it at her waist in the absence of the brass buttons we’d traded away.

It was a relief that Katniss didn’t fight me on it, but I grew concerned when my attempt to trade for one of the warmer, fur-trimmed cloaks proved futile— they were too valuable. I remembered how bone-chilling the ocean storms could be from my time on the _Tribute_.

Katniss began furtively working on a mysterious project in the days that followed. I was given strict instructions not to go rooting around in our storage box, which of course I respected. But it didn’t stop me from stealing glances at it. All I could see was her newly remade coat spread over the top, covering the contents. I smiled to myself, suspecting what Katniss was up to. I imagined a long, cedar cloak, better fitted to my frame than the one we owned, thick and tightly woven by her hand.

We were surprised when C’awa’quu’as informed us that soon we would all be relocating. _Tashees_ , their winter village, was a day’s journey inland up the sound.

I had mixed feelings about leaving the coast. Neither of us had brought up ships or rescue for some time, and during the winter months we wouldn’t see any sailing past anyway. But we’d grown comfortable in Yuquot, and giving up our weekly retreats to the lake made me glum.

Katniss and I were favoured with warm sunshine on our last Sunday away from the village. I’d been doing a better job of containing my physical attraction the past month, but I was lamenting that it would be months before we returned to this spot. I came from my bath and knew it would be a while before Katniss joined me in our spot inside the half moon-shaped thicket of rose bushes. I hung my freshly washed shirt across the shrubs to let it dry and stretched out on the blanket.

After a moment of hesitation, I unbuttoned the front of my trousers. After, the sun’s rays, the buzzing of insects, the happy chirping of birds, and the sweet sensation of my release lulled me into a pleasant sleep. I dreamt of Katniss…

_A silken shadow moves over me as I lay, cloaking me in dark hair, rousing me awake with a languid kiss. She throws her head back, the veil of her long, curly locks free and billowing as a breeze catches it. As the bright, hot sunlight, like white flames, spills between us, I realize she is naked. A groan escapes from my lungs..._

I awoke with a start— Katniss standing a few yards away, staring at me. Her face was unreadable, but her cheeks were flushed. Flustered by the intensity of her gaze, I scrambled up from the blanket. How much of my dream state had she witnessed? That’s when I realized I’d neglected to button my trousers, and, red-faced with embarrassment, I mumbled something about damp clothes.

I turned my back to her, grabbed my shirt and threw it over my head. I tucked it in and buttoned my trousers. And tried to get my racing heart under control. To my relief, when I turned around to sheepishly face her, Katniss was kneeling on the blanket, removing our meal from the basket. She said nothing about it. Maybe she hadn’t noticed.

 ~~~~~

There was a lot of work to do as the village began organizing their things for the move. Our last evening at Yuquot was in late September, by our estimation. We’d started to remove the planks that served as the walls for the longhouses, which would be used to side our new homes. I’d been busy helping to load them onto the largest canoes when we stopped for dinner. The moment I entered the longhouse, now only sheltered by the roof, Katniss came and fetched me.

She tugged my hand, pulling me away from the hall where everyone was settling in to eat.

“Peeta. I have something to show you.” Her eyes were wide with excitement. I gave an impatient sigh and resisted, pretending to be annoyed at being dragged from my meal. She gave a frustrated huff and added, “Please— it won’t take long.”

It made my heart beat faster the way she tightened her grip on my hand to lead me to our chamber. Did she have any idea how impossible it was for me to ever say no to her?

Katniss reached into our storage box and removed a woollen bundle that I recognized by its white colour edged in bands of green, red, yellow and indigo to be a Hudson’s Bay Company trade blanket. But when she unfolded it, instead of a blanket, she held out a garment she’d made. It was similar to the captain’s greatcoat, but with a hood.

Her face lit up with a proud smile. “Happy Birthday, Peeta." 

I grinned as it sank in. I was eighteen.

“Try it on,” she said, holding the coat open so I could slip my arms in the sleeves.

As she helped me don her amazing gift, she explained, “It’s called a _capote_. They’re very popular within the company, especially with the trappers. Gale has one like this.”

“Did you make it for him, too?” I asked. I wasn’t certain which emotion was stronger— the smugness I felt that Katniss gave me something her husband also wore, or the jealousy because it wasn’t an item unique to me. Her reply took me by surprise.

“No,” she said flatly. “Gale already had one when I came to Fort Vancouver.” She paused. “His first wife made it. She was Cree. Her tribe traded with the first fort where he was stationed.”

I frowned in confusion. “But… I thought he sent for you… I mean, he came out first and then…”

Katniss lifted her face from tying the belt around my waist and checked the fit across my shoulders. “It was a typical practice within the company.”

I remembered all those men I’d heard about, keeping country wives. “You weren’t engaged then? When he first came west?”

“We were friends in England. So, no. Until I came to Fort Vancouver, I had no expectations.”

This little piece of information stirred a belief that I was on the brink of something important. “So, his wife _died_ , and _then_ he sent for you,” I probed.

Her eyes grew unfocused, staring at my chest, adjusting the lapels. “When he was offered a superior posting in the Columbia District, she chose to stay behind with their daughter to remain close to her people.”

I was beginning to get a picture of Mr. Hawthorne. “He left a family behind for a better placement within the company.”

I was surprised how my voice sounded. I hadn’t intended to sound so harsh and judgemental— I remembered deciding it was unfair to do so while on the ship— but I couldn’t help it. Worse, I was worried I may have offended Katniss in the process. But she was pensive in response.

“It seems strange, I know. But life on the frontier can be lonely, and it often requires compromise. Think of how different life is here with the Mowachaht, how we’ve adapted to their ways.”

She didn’t need to explain— I understood all of what she was saying— but I shook my head. “Some things— important things— you don’t change. If I had a family, I’d never do what _he_ did.” My breathing quickened, and I became agitated, anxious for her to know that fact about me.

She cocked her head and studied me. “People are capable of doing all sorts of things when faced with tough choices. Sometimes we make sacrifices… other times it’s a simple matter of doing whatever it takes to survive.” I frowned, and she gave my forearm a squeeze. “I need to go help serve dinner.”

I caught her arm before she could leave. My other hand gripped one of the wide lapels on my new coat. “And what sacrifices did you make for this? I hope you didn’t have to make any tough choices.” I couldn’t imagine what she’d had to do to get her hands on such a valuable item as the blanket.

She tipped her head towards C’awa’quu’as and his family. “I made a good trade.” She had that stubborn, steely glint in her eye, and I grew anxious.

“Katniss? What did you do?” My voice was a tense whisper.

She gave a dismissive shrug. “I gave his queen my wedding band.”

My mouth hung open, first in shock and then dismay, that she’d given up such a precious thing for my comfort.

“It was necessary,” she added softly. “You needed something important, and I had a piece of jewelry that wasn’t serving any useful purpose hiding in my pocket.”

Her practical reasoning stirred conflicting emotions that wrestled inside my chest.

The image of her standing at the rail that night on the ship when I’d first spoken to her appeared in my mind. The way her shoulders had slumped under the weight of unbearable sadness. The haunted look in her eye when I asked about her nightmares. I thought about the ships that never came.

I didn’t say it, but I wondered— if a man could leave a family behind, how easy would it be to forget about a wife? Maybe it was uncharitable of me to presume such a thing, but my opinion of Gale Hawthorne shifted from envy to scorn.

“If you were my wife, if you were lost, I would _never_ stop searching for you.” My voice was quiet, but I couldn’t keep the edge out of it.

Katniss gazed at me, her hands fisted and with a hint of a frown on her face. Had I reopened a wound of some kind, reminding her of the life she’d lost? But instead, her face relaxed, and she gave me a little smile.

“Good to know,” she said, and left to join the women in the hall.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:**  New challenges cause old feelings of despair to haunt Katniss, but her dreams take a surprising turn.

 **NOTES:** _wikstup_ means worthless.

 _Tashees_  is the Mowachaht word meaning "gateway" or "passage." The winter settlement located at the head of Tahsis Inlet is now the present day Village of Tahsis. 

The woollen HBC _point blankets_ were popular trade items. They came in a variety of colours, but the most iconic one associated with the company is described in this chapter— a white blanket with the four bands at each end. The _points_ were small black stripes sewn along the side of the blanket adjacent to the colour bands, indicating the size of the blanket. It was common to turn the blankets into the wrap-style _capote_ coats. Originating with French Canadians, it was a style that eventually became associated with the HBC (sometimes referred to as the "Hudson's Bay coat") because of the use of the distinctive company blankets.   


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Katniss**

The longhouses were stripped of their planks, and all the canoes were filled. As we paddled away from the beach, I stared at the bare skeletons of posts and beams standing lonely and deserted. These sturdy sentinels would weather the winter storms while the villagers retreated to a gentler, sheltered home, waiting patiently for our return in the spring.

I should hate this place and all it represented, but departing from it stirred other emotions in my chest. Was it unacknowledged distress that, by leaving the coast, I was surrendering the faint hope of rescue for the months to come? Was it the fear of facing a new and unfamiliar place? The truth started to coalesce when the last of those ghostly timbers were swallowed by the mist. It was a sense of foreboding, evoking the familiar feelings of abandonment that loomed in my nightmares.

I twisted around, needing to see Peeta. He was several feet behind me, paddling with the other men. He frowned, probably seeing my anxiety, so I smiled to let him know I was all right. He gave me a nod and an encouraging smile in return.

The nearly silent paddles propelled the canoes towards our destination with pulse-like strokes. The rhythm was accompanied by voices, singing a simple, almost hypnotic melody. I lifted my chin, looking forward, and endeavoured to release my fears to the waters swishing along the hull, leaving them to flow behind me, out to sea.

We journeyed north up an arm of Nootka Sound for what Peeta estimated was nearly thirty miles until we came to a spot where the inlet narrowed. The frames of the winter longhouses stood on shore awaiting us. In a flurry of activity, the canoes were unloaded and the roof planks placed over the thirty structures as the rain began to fall. The wall boards were quickly added, and all the goods were stowed inside.

The longhouses were a mirror of the coastal village, the largest belonging to the tyee and his household. Peeta and I were directed to our spot inside that corresponded to where we had lived before.

Our new village of Tashees was more tightly cloistered inside a narrow valley compared to Yuquot. Despite the cramped environment we lived in, the surrounding area inspired awe. The imposing mountains, striped with white waterfalls— almost ethereal when seen from the ship but now tangible around me— poked up from mist-shrouded forests. I could hear the muffled roar of rivers running swiftly down steep terrain or through narrow gorges in the near distance. By the time the river beside our encampment met the top of the inlet, it was wide and more placid, made brackish from the rise and fall of the tides.

Walking in the forests felt otherworldly— the air smelled of decomposing logs, and a thick, damp layer of moss was soft underfoot. The dense carpet silenced each step, yet I moved with a light tread. Barely a whisper of wind existed here, in stark contrast to the coast. The low, throaty call of ravens echoed through the trees. Whenever I was away from the hum of the village, foraging for late huckleberries or roots with the other women, I found myself speaking in hushed tones.

In the first weeks we spent at our new home, Peeta and I learned that we weren’t here only to avoid the harsh coastal winter. This was salmon spawning season. Thousands of the fish choked the entrance to the river, the waters churning with flashes of red from their newly-tinted scales.

I was fascinated by the ingenious methods used to harvest them. Stone weirs left from previous years directed many of the fish toward lattice-like structures lowered into the water. When the tide rose, the fish swam freely into the spaces. But, as the tide went out, they became trapped.

My eyes followed them— the ones that escaped the death traps— swimming against the river’s flow, seeking the place of their birth. How many would make it? Which ones would fall to predators or face insurmountable obstacles? When the successful ones reached the spawning beds, they would lay and fertilize their eggs, guarding them with what remaining life they had left after the arduous journey. And then they would die.

If the mood around the village hadn’t been so excited, and my own hunger a priority, the fate of those salmon might have had me slipping into a morose state.

Everyone was consumed with the frantic but methodical task of gathering and filleting hundreds of the fish, day after day. The majority of the fillets were smoked or dried on racks and hung from the ceilings of the longhouses. But there were still plenty of fresh fish set aside to be consumed while the spawning lasted.

It was a joyous time around the village. C’awa’quu’as’s longhouse overflowed with the harvest, and he would hold feasts in which he would distribute the bounty back to the villagers in excess of what we could eat. We stuffed ourselves with the fresh salmon that we’d cooked over a fire, but we also followed the example of the others, drying and squirreling away much of it for leaner days ahead. But it was hard to imagine such hardship in these days of plenty.

The salmon brought black bears down to the rivers, but to protect the villagers and the fish stocks, the Mowachaht constructed deadfall traps— made from tree limbs and baited with salmon— that, when disturbed, released heavy boulders to crush the predators.

Later that fall, while the women collected the last of the berries and roots for the season, some of the men took to the forest to hunt for deer and elk. Peeta went with them— not to hunt, but to help carry the carcasses back to the village. The people freely consumed this meat, but they only ate it fresh, not preserving it as they did the fish and shellfish. Though C’awa’quu’as had a considerable supply of muskets from the ship, many of the men preferred to hunt with spears and bows. It made me envious. I was given no free time to sneak away to use my bow.

It also rained. A lot. We learned why the Mowachaht didn’t bother with shoes. The ground was far too wet and muddy for any kind of animal hide to withstand, and the cedar cloth would quickly shred, making it an impractical waste of the material. As the weather deteriorated, villagers spent much of their time indoors where it was dry.

The first frost marked the beginning of a season of tribal delegation visits and celebratory feasts.

C’awa’quu’as hosted our guests as everyone engaged in trade. Some brought animal pelts, others brought a shiny mineral powder they added to the paint they used to decorate their faces. Desirable food items changed hands. The tyee offered up many of the goods from the _Tribute_ , including some of Peeta’s wares, which were especially popular. There was also the trading of slaves.

Peeta and I had grown more secure in our position within the village in the months following the slaying of the escaped slave. We’d made attempts to integrate into their society and had benefitted from the tyee’s relatively generous endowment of freedoms. His stubborn protection had given us a measure of comfort as he dismissed the warnings of calamity from those who preferred we perished.

But our tenuous situation was renewed as the tyee and his visitors debated our worth. Persistent offers were made for Peeta’s purchase, which the tyee quickly dismissed. I panicked when a few made overtures for me, but he refused to trade me either. Others regarded us with sneers. We were valued and despised. It reminded us of how much our lives depended on the often capricious nature of our captor. What might change his stance? What if our usefulness to him ran out? Slaves were highly valued, but our favoured position could vanish with a sudden twist of fate.

It weighed on us— so much so that when we were approached on the sly by a visiting chief with an invitation to sneak away with his group, we considered it. In return for Peeta’s forging of weapons and tools and my sail-making, he claimed he would reunite us with the next passing ship in the spring.

“But can we believe him?” I whispered to Peeta that night in bed. “Maybe we’re just being lured with false promises.” It made me think of those bear traps.

Peeta agreed. “We could end up in a worse situation than we are now with C’awa’quu’as. Not to mention what he might do if he discovers we’re gone and hunts us down.”

If the accumulation of many slaves reinforced a leader’s wealth and superiority, then the Mowachaht tyee and his chiefs were the strongest in the region. And we’d seen firsthand how C’awa’quu’as responded to any form of disloyalty. Peeta and I decided we were better off remaining with our current captor, where our position was more dependable.

December arrived with another warning that we couldn’t take our inclusion in the village for granted. There was going to be some kind of sacred ceremony, lasting a week, and C’awa’quu’as ordered us out of the longhouse. We were forbidden to be present for it and were exiled to the forest for its duration. We were allowed to take only a small portion of what we’d saved from our salmon feasts and my foraging to eat, enough dry kindling to start a fire, a knife and hatchet, some fish hooks and line, and our blankets. My bow and quiver were to stay behind. I suspected keeping us hungry and eager to return to the village was part of the tyee’s plan.

“He doesn’t seem very concerned about us running away,” Peeta murmured as we gathered our things to go find somewhere to hole up.

“Why would he?” I responded. “He’s made his threat clear about what he’d do to us. We’re miles from the coast, and it’ll be months before any ships return. How long would we last in this weather with so few provisions or equipment?”

We made our way up the river for a short distance and turned inland. Peeta knew of a small cave from his time spent hunting in this part of the forest— more of a rock overhang, actually— that would provide some shelter from the drizzle that was turning into rain.

We collected evergreens to extend the shelter with a lean-to roof. I stripped away the bushy branches while Peeta used the more pliable limbs to construct a framework, reserving the remaining, larger pieces of wood for a fire.

The ground inside the small cave was dry, but it was rocky and uneven, so Peeta dug up the stones to make a level sleeping surface for us. I used some of them to make a fire ring near the entrance, where the escaping smoke would dissuade any predators that may wander by.

When he was done smoothing out the floor, Peeta held out the worms he’d unearthed. “I’d like to go down to the river and try some fishing. Do you mind finishing the roof?”

I nodded. We needed to help our food supply last the week.

“All that practice with making the cedar cloth is coming in handy,” I joked, picking up one of the branches and weaving it through the framework he’d built. If done tightly enough it would block out the rain that was now streaming down in earnest. Peeta took the knife and fish hooks and headed back the way we’d come.

It was strange to miss the confined safety of the longhouse. Captivity was a complicated and paradoxical thing. As I wove the roof together, I reflected on how I’d been touched by it in many forms— the constraints of poverty and my heritage, those final unhappy years at Fort Vancouver, and now my life at Nootka Sound. Other than my early childhood, I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t found myself trapped in some way. Did I know what true freedom looked like? Did it even exist?

After about a half hour, I’d completed the lean-to and laid out one of the cedar blankets for our bed. We wouldn’t have to sleep in the dirt, but it only left one for us to use as a covering. At least we had our warm woollen coats.

Next, I turned my attention to the fire. Peeta usually took care of our little fire in the longhouse. He used his flint from the ship, but we hadn’t been allowed to bring it— one of the tyee’s frustrating restrictions. However, I’d seen women build fires numerous times without it. Even though I used the dead twigs from inside the cave as tinder along with our dry kindling, it still took nearly an hour to get a decent fire burning.

My arms and hands were sore from the effort, but I grinned with satisfaction as the added firewood we’d collected began to crackle and pop. I looked towards the river, wondering how much longer Peeta would be. My stomach was growling with hunger, and I was proud to show him the fire I’d made. Ducking my head down, I stepped out the entrance of our shelter and scanned the trees. The rain had turned into wet snow as the temperature dipped below freezing. I snugged the belt of my coat around my body a little tighter.

Should I go down to the river to see how Peeta was making out? I settled on wandering around our camp looking for easy-to-attain firewood and piling it under the lean-to. After the fourth trip into the forest for wood, the ground was covered in white and my bare feet grew cold, driving me back to the shelter. Unlike me, Peeta tolerated the cold fairly well— how many times had I inched closer to share the heat radiating from his body on chilly nights? But I wondered how he was faring in the snow.

I waited outside the entrance, peering through the trees, but still there was no sign of him. I went inside the shelter and sat down, holding my feet close to the fire. Soon the rest of my body cramped up from the cold and lack of activity. I threw the spare cedar blanket over my shoulders, and grew annoyed as time ticked on and he still hadn’t returned.

How long had he been gone? I went outside again, walking through a couple inches of slushy snow in the direction of the river, which helped get the blood pumping through my body. But I turned around when my feet grew so chilled I couldn’t feel them anymore. I muttered under my breath, wondering what was keeping him.

I watched the sky grow darker as the clouds thickened with increasing snowfall and approaching twilight. My irritation with Peeta turned into anxiety. I called out, but my voice sounded strange and muzzled in the snowy fog and dense forest. Maybe I’d attract hungry predators. It was useless. The sound of the river would drown me out. Peeta would never hear me. Fear gripped my chest with icy fingers.

I limped back to the cave on aching feet, teeth chattering and my face wet from the huge flakes that melted on contact with my anxiety-flushed skin. Panicked and running out of options, I was about to go inside when, out of the mist, Peeta’s white capote coat, covered in a layer of sticky, wet snow, emerged from the trees. The hood was pulled over his head, hiding all of his face except for the stalwart set of his jaw as he waded through the deluge, a string with three fish hanging from the belt.

“Where have you been?!” I yelled with more vexation than I’d intended.

He pushed back his hood and quirked his eyebrow, holding up the trout. “Fishing. Just like I said.”

I tried reining in the shrillness in my voice, but to no avail. “You left hours ago, and it started to get dark.”

I turned my back on him and crawled inside the shelter.

He followed on my heels, shook the snow from his coat, and laid the fish on a flat stone near the entrance. “I know. But I didn’t want to come back empty-handed. Anyway, I was down at the river where I said I’d be.” He went to touch my arm, and I brushed it away. He frowned, his voice tense. “Why? What did you think happened?”

It was a good question. My tone had been as accusatory as it had been fearful.

I sat near the fire, keeping my face down and hands busy rubbing my frozen feet to disguise my own confusing reaction. “There’re dangerous animals, and the snow began to fall. It’s getting dark. You might’ve lost your way back.”

Peeta sat down cross-legged in front of me. I tried to slow the pounding in my chest and steady my breathing. When I dared look up, he was studying me, his eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Are you angry at me?”

_Why am I so upset with him?_

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and met his gaze. “All I could think of was... what if you never returned?”

His expression softened. “I’m sorry if I scared you. We can stay together from now on if you want.”

I knew I was behaving unfairly. Peeta had only been doing his best to look out for us. While I’d been pacing impatiently at the shelter, fuming about my grumbling stomach and cold feet, he’d been out in the snow and slush for hours, doing what he could to feed us.

I shook my head, trying to act more rational. “No. It isn’t practical. We need to eat and collect firewood.”

“I don’t mind, Katniss.”

I took a deep breath to calm my emotions. “Being away from the village… It makes me think about how vulnerable we are. It’s got me out of sorts.”

“You’re right. We’re still learning how to survive out here. We should stay close enough to hear the other if there’s trouble.” He glanced at my feet. “How long were you walking outside?”

I shrugged, feeling guilty for thinking only of my own discomfort. “Your feet must be worse.”

“They’ll be fine,” he answered. “I piled up cedar boughs so I didn’t have to stand in the snow while I fished.” He surprised me when he reached out and grabbed my ankles, causing my hands to fall to the ground to keep from tumbling backwards. “Here, let me.”

Peeta opened his coat and yanked up his shirt from his trousers. A gasp escaped my lungs when he pressed the soles of my feet against the exposed planes of his warm stomach. He began to rub them vigorously to restore circulation. Once the initial shock passed, I blushed and said they were fine, trying to pull them away.

But he looked me in the eye and held on.

“They’re like ice,” he declared and kept on with his ministrations.

Giving a sigh of surrender, I scooted a little closer to him. I leaned forwards, my arms hugging my thighs under my knees. At first, as Peeta’s kneading and rubbing restored the feeling in my feet, a terrible ache settled in. But soon the pain diminished— the warmth of his hands massaging from my ankles down to my toes melting my anxiety along with it. I closed my eyes in relief. It felt good.

“Better?” he asked when he stopped.

I opened my eyes and nodded. “Thank you.”

He grinned and gently set my feet aside. “Then let’s get those trout cooking. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!” He stood up and tucked in his shirt.

Fed and tired from our busy day, we built up the fire for the night and went to bed.

 ~~~~~

_I’m so tired of fighting._

_Waves splash over my head, filling my mouth with salt water, and my limbs become heavy. I can see the ship moving away. Standing on the stern are my parents, Prim with her child in her arms, and Gale, too, looking the way he did walking out the night of his confession. They don’t see me, and I don’t have breath to call out._

_They have all deserted me in this cold and dark place._

_“Take my hand.”_

_I twist around in the water. With my last ounce of strength, I reach out. Strong arms pull me into a canoe. I collapse in a sodden heap at the bottom of the narrow vessel, shivering from exposure and emotion._

_“I was alone,” I whimper. “They all left me behind.”_

_I am enveloped in white— soft and substantial, like the heavy snow, but it isn’t cold anymore._

_“You wanted to leave, too,” the man says, his voice gentle but with a trace of sadness._

_I frown. Of course I wanted to leave. But then I see myself— clutching the ship’s rail... on the beach in my bloody dress... and finally, watching the Tribute as she burned... and I understand._

_“But I chose to stay. For the boy.”_

_“Would you stay for me?”_

_Would I stay for my rescuer? The sails disappear over the horizon._

_“I’m broken. You’ll leave me, too,” I answer._

_He tucks the snowy blanket around my back. It carries the faint scent of cinnamon. “I will stay with you,” he whispers. “Always.”_

_I clutch his hand, but it isn’t enough. I release it so I can cling to his torso, sinking into the embrace of his promise. I tangle my legs with his, which makes him sigh._

_As I snuggle closer, circling my arms around his warm body, the ice running through my veins begins to dissipate. The man in my dreams caresses my shoulders and back, and it feels so good after going for such a long time without that touch. I bring my lips to his neck, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw, as the sensation spreads from my melting core down my limbs, all the way to my tingling toes. Comforting warmth cocoons and floods my body. I am both set free from my watery exile and held captive by a new kind of heat._

_I pull my companion’s face down to kiss me back, and he willingly complies. I trap his full bottom lip between mine and thread my fingers in his wavy hair, tugging a fistful to keep him from escaping. I slide my foot up the side of his ankle, nudging the trouser hem higher, seeking more skin. He moans when my thigh brushes against his groin, and I feel the hardness there. I smile, knowing he wants me, too. I feel the texture of coarse hair and the flex of his calf muscle against my exploring foot… my sensitive soles and arches aren’t numb from the snow anymore… because his hands were so warm touching them..._

Startling awake, I gasped in alarm. Peeta grunted as I pushed myself free from his open capote coat and his arms, both of which had been wrapped around my body. I retreated until my back met the cave wall. Peeta’s eyes fluttered open, glazed from what had transpired. I wrapped my coat as tightly around my shaking body as I could and covered my face with my hands.

_What have I done?_

I was a married woman who’d forced herself on someone who was closer in age to her nephew than to herself. My fellow prisoner and my friend. There were no words to describe my mortification.

A faint displacement of air told me that Peeta had moved into the space beside me against the wall.

“I’m so sorry!” I cried. “I was having another nightmare.”

He didn’t say anything, so I peeked through my fingers. He was staring at the fire, catching his breath. He swallowed and let his head fall back against the rock. “That wasn’t your usual nightmare.”

I dropped my hands and turned my face to him, an inadequate explanation on my tongue, when I saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a dazed, lopsided smile. I couldn’t help the nervous gasp of laughter that erupted from my mouth, which I promptly stifled with my hand. Peeta flashed a furtive look in my direction before replacing the smile with a less readable expression, gathering his coat around him.

“It’s fine, Katniss. It really wasn’t so bad for me.”

 _It wasn’t fine!_ His attempt to make light of it did nothing to dispel my embarrassment. Instead it chafed against my frayed emotions, causing me to huff, “I noticed that.”

Peeta seemed unruffled by my defensive response. But there was a brightness in his eyes and a little pink to his cheeks.

“You’re the first woman who’s ever kissed me… Well, other than my mother or women related to me.”

 _That made it even worse!_ My shoulders sagged, and I stared out into the night. Not only had I stolen that moment from him, but— the memory of the dream still vivid— I’d given him a kiss that was miles beyond the innocent first peck that a young man should share with his sweetheart. There was no way to take it back or make it right. I was about to apologize, struggling for the words that would somehow make me less of a thief, when I felt his smile.

When I dared to look, there was a trace of impishness curling his lips. “It’s like what you said on the first night... about seeing as how we’re married…” He gave a shrug. “So… feel free to kiss me anytime you like.”

I stopped short of laughing, but the humorous remark freed the tension in my body.

We sat in awkward silence as I gathered my thoughts. I wanted him to understand. “You’re right, it wasn’t like the other nightmares. I was in the water, but there was a ship in this one. There were people I care about aboard, and they were sailing away.”

“Were you thinking about Gale?”

Turning to him, I saw he was no longer smiling, but looking pensively into the fire.

I knew what he was asking. How could I explain to Peeta that in my dream I was kissing a man other than my husband? And, caught up in the fantasy, that I’d taken advantage of him in confusion. I bit my lip, unsettled by the lingering sensation of the kiss. Our familiarity, our posing as husband and wife— it was blurring the lines. I gave a non-committal shrug, deciding it would be best if I said nothing, letting him believe what was the simplest explanation.

He brought a hand to his face and touched his fingers to his mouth, and it made my throat constrict, bracing for what he’d say next.

“I know you’ve said that in your nightmares you feel forsaken...” I looked at him cautiously, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes stayed on the fire, his expression serious. “You’re stuck with me, forced to live like this, worried that you’ll never see him again.” There was such sadness in his tone that my earlier embarrassment was forgotten. “It’s selfish, Katniss, but I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to go through this alone.”

My hand reached out to touch him, but I stopped, thinking better of it.

He continued, “Today, when you were frightened I wasn’t coming back? I think maybe I’m the one who should be more afraid.”

I felt the blood drain from my face as my dream flashed in my memory, of my moments of despair when I wanted to surrender to the waves.

Peeta sucked in a breath. “I want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to get you home.” He paused and turned to me, his blue eyes filled with new intensity. “I promise we’ll survive this if we do it together.”

“We can’t make those promises. Not in this place, under these circumstances,” I replied as gently as I could.

“I know. But I am telling you that’s my goal. To the best of my abilities, I will never leave you alone. If you promise not to give up.” He shifted, preparing to lie down. Once settled, he lifted the blanket for me. “We should try to get some sleep.”

I nodded and joined Peeta under the blanket, laying on my side with my back to him. I tucked my feet under the layers of my dress and petticoats and snugged my coat around my body. But my restless mind wouldn’t shut off. I could tell by Peeta’s breathing that he wasn’t sleeping either.

“Katniss?”

“Um hmm?” I murmured.

“It’s a cold one tonight. I can share my coat with you if you want.”

I swallowed. I wasn’t sure if, after what had happened, that was such a good idea. “It’s all right. I’m fine. But thank you.”

He was quiet for a second, but then he rolled from his back to face me. “Don’t be so stubborn. I know you didn’t mean anything by that dream. I can feel you shivering, and we promised to help each other.”

I released a sigh. He was right. I was over-reacting. He held open the capote coat I’d made for him, and I shifted my body over until I felt his chest against my back. He wrapped the thick fabric around us both and pulled the cedar blanket up, tucking us in.

Our proximity left me with few options, but when Peeta slipped one arm under my head, encouraging me to use his shoulder for a pillow, I accepted. I didn’t mind the weight of his other arm over my body. This was better, I thought, as I nuzzled my chin under his lapel so that only my eyes remained visible. I watched the fire until I felt Peeta’s breathing take on the rhythm of sleep.

Not long after, my body now relaxed and warm, I began to drift off, too. As I closed my eyes, the memory of the man who’d rescued me from the water filled my thoughts. Though I couldn’t see his face in the dark, his voice, the scent attached to him, had tugged on a memory. It was sweet and comforting… and something more.

I wondered if he would visit me again tonight.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Peeta and Katniss hold fast to their friendship after the dream kiss, but outside forces threaten.

 **NOTES:**  The year-round climate of Tahsis is mild. In the winter months it rains frequently but temperatures rarely go below freezing. However, I was surprised to discover during my research of Mowachaht traditional clothing that they didn't bother with footwear, even in the winter. This excerpt from Vancouver Island's Alberni School District's educational materials explains: 

"The Nuu-chah-nulth people's formidable resistance to the cold was probably a result of early conditioning and an oil rich diet. As the Nuu-chah-nulth people did not do any extensive land travel, neither age group or sex required or wore any kind of footwear. Cedar bark shoes would have soon been shredded and "skin" moccasins would have become cracked and brittle with the constant exposure to moisture." 


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Peeta**

Katniss murmured in her sleep. I’d awakened to her small, restless movements— the way I always did when fears disturbed her nights. When I tightened my arms around her, she sighed and grew still. There was a time when that physical contact would have left me elated, but instead it left me feeling hollow.

The way she’d recoiled last night from her dream, _from me_ , told me everything I needed to know. Like a dolt, I’d embarrassed her by how eagerly I’d responded to her kiss, exposing my secret attraction. The practicalities of the cold had erased the physical distance between us. But time would tell if my reassurances were enough to keep our friendship and her trust in me from being irreparably broken.

I lay watching the fire, listening to her soft moans. It wasn’t a nightmare— she was too relaxed to be troubled. I wished I could say the same.

The woman in my dreams had become the embodiment of Katniss, sparking to life in my private thoughts, safely contained in a fantasy. But the moment she’d kissed me, the fragile wall between what was real and not real had disintegrated. I would never again be able to separate my imagination from the fullness of my affection for her. Or from the hard truth that her heart lay elsewhere.

She may be in my arms, but she was dreaming about _him_. And I only dreamed of her.

Faint light from outside roused me a while later. The morning air was cool and damp on my face. I knew without looking that the fire had dwindled to embers and needed my attention. The arm under Katniss’s head had grown numb, but I was reluctant to disturb her. I closed my eyes, too tired to fight the temptation of a few more stolen minutes with her soft and warm body against me.

I had to stop thinking this way— it only made things more difficult.

Sliding my arm from under her neck as carefully as I could, I moved away from her so I could rise. She gave a little sigh and rolled over.

Rubbing her eyes, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s morning,” I answered. “I need to take care of the fire.”

She sat up as I snapped the smaller sticks into kindling to place in the coals. She crawled over and, crouching beside me, yawned, wrapping the cedar blanket around her shoulders. I could feel her eyes watching me as I blew on the coals to coax some flames from the damp wood. Once the fire caught, I mustered the courage to glance back at her.

“You look tired,” she said. “I know I’m not the easiest person to share a bed with.”

The old apology, so unnecessary. Sorting out my conflicting emotions left me confused about what to say. But one thing was true.

“I don’t mind sleeping with you, Katniss.”

She handed me pieces of wood from the pile, and I fed them into the fire. “We need to gather more this morning, get it under cover so it has time to dry a little.”

I nodded. “We should eat first.”

But neither of us made a move, and a heavy silence settled inside the shelter.

“Peeta?” Her voice was restrained, and I kept my eyes down, steeling myself for what was likely coming next.

“Yes?” I tried to sound placid, keeping my hands occupied poking at the fire.

The words hovered unspoken on her lips. I didn’t want her to say it— that what had happened last night was all her fault, that I was too young to be held accountable for my response, or, worse, that she pitied me for my hopeless desire.

So I spoke first. “That time, when you gave me my coat…when I implied…” Her eyes fixed on me, and I resorted to the safety of gazing at the fire as I wrestled to get it out. “I was being unfair. I’m certain your husband has done his best to try to find you.” Whatever sad history they shared, he had her heart.

As much as it gutted me, I expected she’d be relieved at my words. She’d reach for our basket of food, and after we’d eaten we’d gather more firewood, doing our best to stay safe, warm, and dry. Get on with the business of surviving. And we’d put last night behind us, pretending the kiss never happened.

Instead, she reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked at her then, my breath catching at the solicitude, the solidarity in her stunning, grey eyes, the flickering flames dancing across them. It was an impossible situation, but, as the fire sprung back to life, I was buoyed by her small gesture that told me we were all right.

After eating some fish and dried berries for breakfast, we emerged from our shelter to find that the temperatures had warmed overnight and a light drizzle was falling. All traces of the previous day’s snow had been washed away.

For the remaining time of our exile we ventured out only when needed— always remaining within calling distance. We huddled by our fire, watching the rain fall. We rationed our food. We recited favourite bits of literature to fill the long hours until we couldn’t remember anymore. When we slept, we no longer left any space between us. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. Our physical contact was about two friends sharing their heat, nothing more.

We returned to the village grateful to be welcomed back into the shelter of the longhouse. It snowed again that night, but the sight of patchy blue sky in the morning put me in a sunny disposition. I played with the children, tossing snowballs and making them squeal with laughter as they pelted me in return. When I saw Katniss smirking at me from the longhouse, I hardly felt the cold. Within a few hours the sun had turned the snow to slush, and by midday it was gone.

We never learned the reason for our banishment, and our life within the village resumed its usual pattern of tedious labour.

As the year wound down, more tribes from near and far congregated, some reuniting with relatives living in other villages or engaging in the complex negotiation of arranging advantageous marriages with new kin.

We were familiar with C’awa’quu’as’s distribution of resources to his people at village feasts in the past, but now we witnessed a curious amplification of this tradition with our invited guests, along with animated entertainment.

While goods exchanged hands, the protocol was quite different from the trading we’d witnessed before. There was competition to determine who handed over the most impressive items. The greater the value of the goods a chief brought, the higher his seating placement at the feasts and status amongst the people thereafter.

But always, in large part thanks to the cargo from the _Tribute_ , C’awa’quu’as reigned supreme. Hundreds of muskets and accompanying powder and shot, many bolts of cloth, and a large volume of my knives and hatchets changed hands. Slaves, dried clams, cod, and halibut from the coast, and many of the salmon the villagers had harvested in the fall were also given away.

The tyee received dried quawnoose roots, whale blubber and train oil, deer and elk meat, more of the glittering, black, mineral powder called _pelpelth_ , and a large supply of the precious hiixwa shells. There were boxes filled with butter-like grease that held special interest. We learned it was rendered from a smelt-like fish, called _oolichan_. Though it had a fishy flavour, we found it preferable to the train oil.

The volume and the diversity of the goods were impressive.

Katniss and I were shocked how, without flinching, the tyee would toss some goods into the fire, as if to prove to the others how his wealth was so immense that he could destroy it as if it were of little consequence.

Chiefs of smaller, weaker clans could not compete, and, as a result, they acquiesced to the Mowachaht leader’s authority. Thus the hierarchy of the various chiefs was reestablished. And yet, despite all the sharing of wealth and the feasting, singing, and dancing, there was a detectable tension around the village.

I spent long hours cutting and splitting the endless amounts of wood needed for cooking and heating the longhouses. Katniss was kept busy preparing meals, hauling water, or sewing garments at our king or queen’s behest. Providing for our visitors left us little time to gather any food for ourselves, though we were fortunate to be included in many of the feasts. Despite the mixed reaction we inspired, our captor delighted in showing us off.

“I feel like a pet,” I muttered to Katniss. “Either put out of the house when we’re not wanted or paraded around when we are.”

Katniss gave a snort. “That’s what we are— prized beasts of burden. A living ornament in our tyee’s crown.” She smirked at me. “Especially you.”

“Oh? Why me especially?” I replied, feigning offence.

She reached over and ruffled my hair. “Because you’re such an _exotic_ pet.” That brought what I hoped wasn’t too foolish a grin to my face. “I, on the other hand…” She flipped one of her dark braids over her shoulder, “...am quite mundane by comparison.”

She was teasing, but heat flooded my face from her touch. I did stand out with my colouring, but no one could look at her big, luminous eyes or the way the stray strands of her hair curled into delicate ringlets and not appreciate how extraordinary she was. I rolled my eyes and huffed at her attempt at self-deprecation.

“You’ll never be mundane, Katniss.”

A guarded expression flashed across her face, but it quickly vanished. “Thank you.” The queen barked out an order, and Katniss gave a sigh. Her face drew close to mine. “Workhorse,” she mouthed, but there was a glint in her eye.

The following afternoon a young chief from a tribe visiting from the south approached me on the pretext of making a trade. He offered some of the tasty quawnoose roots and a box of oolichan grease in exchange for a copper bracelet I’d managed to fashion in the few free hours at my disposal. He discreetly volunteered to deliver a message from us to one of the company forts. I sought out Katniss as soon as I was able to share his proposal with her. We huddled close on our bunk, keeping our voices low to avoid attention.

“He isn’t trying to persuade us to leave with him like the others?” she whispered, her face screwed up in confusion. “Why would he wish to help us be rescued? What does he benefit from it?” She set aside the indigo calico print frock she was adorning with rows of hiixwa shells.

“He didn’t say, only expressed his sympathy for our plight.”

Katniss pursed her lips. “More likely it’s out of jealousy. Undermining C’awa’quu’as may improve his position within the tribes, or perhaps it’s a way to ingratiate himself with our people in trade.”

I recalled the young chief’s sincere manner. “Maybe he simply wants to help us,” I suggested, but the scepticism in her face led me to add, “I don’t know.”

She fingered the shells on the garment, considering the offer. “Whatever the reasons why, at least we don’t risk ourselves by running away. The more pressing question is whether it can work.”

“I’d hoped that either my metal messages or the ship’s cargo being distributed around the region would’ve been noticed by our people by now,” I said.

She had that look on her face— the slight scowl that didn’t quite overshadow the trace of melancholy in her eyes. “It’s possible they keep the precious items hoarded in their villages. Or, if not, maybe it hasn’t been convincing enough for the company to bother investigating.”

A small surge of indignation for her sake heated my face, but it was displaced by a greater desire to dispel her sadness. “There was that one ship that got chased away before they could spot the wreck— maybe they were looking for us. But with all traces of the _Tribute_ gone, there’s nothing to link us to Friendly Cove anymore.”

“They must’ve decided that we were lost at sea. Searching for us would be a waste of time if they believe it’s likely a lost cause.”

I frowned. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was probably right. “We’re relying on a random vessel in need of provisions sailing into Nootka Sound.”

She sighed. “Which isn’t very promising.”

I clasped her hand and leaned closer, willing her to look me in the eye. “This chief might be the key to changing our fortunes. If we can come up with a way to give them physical proof… But it needs to be small, discreet, like a note. I can’t write something that detailed in copper—it’s too valuable, C’awa’quu’as would notice. Without paper and ink, I’m at a loss.”

She bit her lip, her brow furrowed in thought. Then the corner of her mouth curved up, and she said, “I think I have an idea.”

Katniss worked by the faint light of our little fire while the rest of the household slept. In the morning she handed me a small piece of needlework, our names and whereabouts stitched onto a scrap of fabric. I stuffed it in the pocket of my trousers as she left to collect water.

My heart pounding in my chest at our gambit, I prepared to leave the longhouse to deliver the message to the young chief on my way to retrieve more firewood. I was grateful, given my anxiety, to have some time away from the village engaged in distracting, physical labour.

But I was struck with terror when I reached the entrance and C’awa’quu’as called me back. I approached his chamber with caution, my knees shaking, and dropped in front of him in submission.

“Yes, Tyee?” I managed to choke out.

“I know you have been tempted, Peeta,” he said in his language.

I swallowed, the cloth message bunching up in my pocket as I knelt. I did my best to smooth it out, pretending to wipe my hands, which had indeed started to sweat. Did the tyee know about the chief’s offer? Had we risked his life as well as our own?

C’awa’quu’as smiled and gestured for me to sit with him. “But you have shown me you’re not easily tricked into believing their lies.”

The tightness gripping my chest eased slightly, but his intonation left me wary.

“A wise tyee knows that those who would openly defy him must be punished, otherwise his people will say he is weak. But I am also a merciful tyee. When many in the village were afraid, saying you would bring ill fortune down on us and called for your death, I alone have protected you.”

I thought of his own death threats against me, but I bowed my head in respect and fear. “You have treated Katniss and me very well, Tyee.” My voice came out barely higher than a whisper. “And I have seen your wrath when you are disrespected.”

His eyes narrowed. He changed to his broken English to be sure I understood. “I attack your ship, kill many for much killing and stealing from me and my people.”

It was no use to remind him that it wasn’t our ship’s crew responsible for those past crimes. Captain Crane’s imprudent and rude behaviour had been all the tyee and his chiefs needed to indicate our intentions. His patience had run out, the pent up outrage erupting into violence.

“You have been a good slave, Peeta,” he said, switching back to his native tongue. “Other chiefs know your worth and wish to possess you, too.” I gave a tentative smile at the compliment, but it left my face when he added, “A tyee who is unwilling to _share his wealth_ and take care of his people does not deserve to lead.”

I sucked in a breath, trying to remain calm.

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of parting with you.” He glanced around at the many people inside the longhouse. “But I must balance my needs with that of my people. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”

My heart started to pound painfully.

“Katniss has shown her value, too. While I am reluctant to give you away, I am pressed to trade her to appease my chiefs. I allowed you to keep her because you pledged your loyalty.” His eyes grew hard, boring into mine. “Are you still loyal to me, Peeta?”

Though he smiled and spoke softly, the threat in his question was palpable. It was a test, a warning. I remembered the way he’d looked at me with such rage the day he killed the runaway slave. But I also remembered the day he’d spared my life on the beach. I struggled to control my panic, the urge to blurt out a reminder of my own threat to kill myself if any harm came to Katniss.

But then a wave of understanding swelled inside me, one that nearly drowned all my fear. I knew to lash out in desperation against him would be disastrous, especially for Katniss. Only humility and absolute devotion would persuade the tyee, so I marshalled my emotions.

“Please don’t send Katniss away,” I whispered with reverence, my head down in supplication. “We only wish to serve you.”

He smiled warmly and put his arm around my shoulders. “Wocash, Peeta. You have convinced me.”

The muscles clenching my gut released, and relief flowed through me. The smile left his face as he stared with unfocused eyes out the entrance of the longhouse. Moodiness darkened his countenance, and I wondered if I’d been forgotten. But then he threw back his shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and rose to his feet. He told me to remain in the village for the remainder of the day, that he desired for me to work at my forge, and I was dismissed.

Once the fire reached the right temperature, I took a quick glance around. When it was safe, I took the cloth from my pocket and tossed it into the flames. I watched as our rescue plan turned to ashes. Later that day, the young chief and his people departed in their canoes without further contact between us.

That night, our faces close together as we lay under the blankets, I told Katniss about my conversation with C’awa’quu’as. It pained me to see her face grow pale when I described how she might’ve been sold to another chief, but I needed her to understand why I’d had to destroy our message.

“I’m sorry. I should have talked to you before I did it.”

She gripped my forearm. “No. It was the right thing to do.”

“He’s a volatile man,” I whispered. “We can’t risk provoking him. There’s no saying what he might do to us.” She grew quiet, her eyes narrowed in deep thought. “What is it?”

“I can’t help noticing how he’s behaved around all these chiefs,” she said in a hushed voice. “Everything he does seems... _purposeful_.”

I considered what Katniss was suggesting in light of the tyee’s words and demeanour that morning. I thought back on the months we’d been his captives. “Including the _Tribute_ ,” I whispered, and our eyes locked. Katniss nodded in agreement.

I had judged C’awa’quu’as’s attack on our ship as the reaction of a vengeful man filled with savage bloodlust. With the perspective of time, I could see to what Katniss was alluding. The flashes of anger, the audacious displays of wealth, the excessive gift giving, what appeared as nonsensical destruction of goods at the feasts, and his intimidations and threats— all were calculated tactics designed to bolster his prestige and reinforce his power in the region.

C’awa’quu’as was a man of extreme moods, and he did have a temper, but he was too clever, too patient and strategic to be ruled by passion. Though I had no doubt he’d been in a rage at Captain Crane’s insults, his actions were likely not prompted by impulsive, unhinged pride.

I’d learned while aboard the ship that Mowachaht tyees had once presided over a monopoly of trade with the ships that used to frequent Nootka Sound. C’awa’quu’as had shared some of that history with me during our conversations as I’d endeavoured to learn their language. But with the establishment of company forts, the tyee was being cut out as the middleman for the valuable exchange of goods.

When I mentioned my thoughts to Katniss she scowled. “He wanted—needed— our cargo.”

“And the captain gave him the excuse to declare war on us.”

“He took a great risk killing our crew and seizing the cargo, knowing the consequences to future relations with our people if they ever discovered he was responsible.”

Katniss was right. While it was an impressive show of his fearlessness and provided a massive but temporary boost for shoring up his leadership, it made him vulnerable should it be traced back to him, as many of his people feared.

“The only reason he’d do it must be because he’s worried about losing prominence amongst his own people.” I replayed my conversation with the tyee in my mind. “Isn’t it curious that he would bother to explain himself to a slave? I mean, some of it was meant to intimidate me, but it felt at times as if he wanted to win me over.”

“He doesn’t want to lose you, Peeta. You give him something no other chief can boast of. If his threats aren’t sufficient, winning your loyalty is a smart, cautionary move. Fear and generosity meted out as he sees most advantageous. It’s how he manages everyone.”

“He values you, too.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m the one he was prepared to send away.”

“That’s only because he—” _He knows that I’d do anything to keep you safe_. “—he made the deal with me that first day on the beach. I was the obvious one to approach.”

From the little quirk of her eyebrow I wasn’t sure she believed me. Small lines formed between her eyes. “If he’s scared or paranoid, he’s even more dangerous.”

C’awa’quu’as was playing a precarious game with peril on many sides, trying to adapt to a fluid political situation. And we were caught in the middle of it, captive of a man for whom we were both a coveted prize and a liability.

“Then we’ll do our best to play along by his rules. For as long as we have to,” I said.

She gave a little nod and rolled onto her back. I did the same and closed my eyes. A moment later I felt her little finger graze mine. I thought she meant to give me a quick, reassuring squeeze, but she hesitated. It made my heart skip a beat, wondering what it meant, but then I understood. This wasn’t one of her nightmares, but the fear was every bit as menacing. I slid my palm over her hand, intending to wrap my fingers around hers the way I always did when she was asleep and scared. But she surprised me by turning her hand over and lacing her fingers with mine instead.

 ~~~~~

On the day we guessed might be Christmas, Katniss and I ate a humble meal of dried salmon, roasted quawnoose roots, and a little of our preserved yama berries. We commiserated over Katniss’s inability to go hunting, as we’d spotted a few wintering swans in the area. Roasted fowl would’ve been a welcome break after several months of gorging on salmon.

I mused about my father and brother back in England and the fine meals we’d shared over the years. I described how my father made a point of inviting one of his worker’s families to join us on Christmas Eve every year.

“He said it was impractical with only the three of us, but I think it was because he remembered what it was like starting out, before he built a successful business.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Katniss said. I nodded my head, feeling the many miles that lay between me and my father at such a sentimental time of the year.

When I asked Katniss about her favourite Christmas memory, she talked about being a little girl, decorating their home in holly and mistletoe with Prim, and going out hunting with her father and bringing home a goose to roast on Christmas Day.

“My mother would style her, my, and Prim’s hair in elaborate braids and insist we all dress in our finest clothing. We’d sing wassailing songs. My father had the most beautiful voice.” Her expression turned wistful. “The holidays weren’t the same for me and Prim after they died.”

“How about after you came to Fort Vancouver?”

She took a piece of fish from the small, wooden platter we shared and chewed on it before answering. “It was much better. The first year, we were excited, trying to recreate all our old traditions.” She smiled. “Gale brought home bundles of evergreen boughs and bunches of Oregon grape holly— our parlour looked like a forest after we were done. Prim insisted we sing, too, claiming I reminded her of our father.”

I smirked. “We could sing a song if you want.” I nodded my head towards the hall. “They enjoy music and dance. I bet they’d all love us giving them a show for a change.”

She gave a huff. “I don’t think so.”

We grew quiet— the recollections of the past colliding with our present reality.

I figured Katniss must be missing Gale. But when I asked what she missed most, she said seeing her nephews’ and nieces’ faces light up at receiving a new toy or trinket. Her eyes grew misty reflecting on how difficult the first Christmas without their mother must be. I didn’t know what to think about her not mentioning her husband. Maybe, after what had happened in the cave, she worried it would hurt me in some way.

“Do you suppose news of our fate would’ve reached my family by now?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “Both our families have probably had our funerals, too.”

I said I didn’t like the thought of them being sad over the holidays.

Katniss slid the platter of food over to me to finish. The melancholy turn in our conversation affected my appetite, too. I was picking away at the remaining fish when she murmured, “I wonder if we’ll still be here next Christmas.”

I wanted to banish the disturbing thoughts hovering behind her darkened eyes, for both of us to leave the turbulent waters of 1831 behind.

“Next year we’ll be free. You’ll see them again, Katniss.”

Her eyes pierced mine, weighing my certainty, and, for a moment, the formidable seas of doubt prevailed. Then she blinked, and her eyes lost a bit of their stormy cast.

A trace of a smile swept across her lips— perhaps not fully embracing my conviction, but at least willing to let in the possibility. She tipped her head towards me. “Here’s to next Christmas.”

 ~~~~~

The rest of the mild but wet winter passed uneventfully. Around the end of February, the chiefs gathered in consultation. I couldn’t discern what they discussed, but the tenor was serious.

The following week the order was given, and the village was on the move again. In a repeat of our actions the previous fall, the longhouses were disassembled and everything loaded into the canoes for our return to Yuquot.

It felt good to be back in our old village. The second afternoon after our return, I walked down to the beach so I could watch the waves. Without warning, Katniss appeared at my side. She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the light breeze, and inhaled a deep breath of salt-tinged air.

A few seconds later, she released it, opened her eyes, and said, “I’m glad we’re back. I missed seeing the ocean, feeling the openness.” She scrunched her shoulders as she hugged herself. “It was so close in Tashees— the river valley, the forest, the houses crowded together.”

“And all the extra people coming and going,” I added.

She nodded. “I feel a little more free here. Like I can breathe easier.”

“I’ll ask the tyee if we can go back to the lake on Sundays again,” I said. Katniss’s eyes sparkled at the idea, and I felt almost content with our fate.

But our weekly retreats were denied because our return to the coast brought a flurry of fishing not unlike what we’d experienced with the salmon. Only this time it was the herring spawning that occupied our lives. I joined other men in the canoes and saw the silvery bodies of thousands of the small fish teeming in the waters around us.

The men used long poles imbedded with many fine spikes— like a great comb— slapping them down with force into the shoals. The herring were so plentiful they became impaled on the poles.

Throughout the village, racks were laden with drying fish. Katniss spent hours cleaning, gutting, and hanging them, but she told me she didn’t mind. I knew what she meant. Our salmon provisions would eventually run out. C’awa’quu’as had given away so many of his salmon during his feasts over the winter, I wondered if he ever grew concerned about his diminishing food supply. I shook away the thought— he was the tyee, after all.

A week later, Katniss was sent to gather the new green shoots of nettle plants and help dig up the roots of a variety of clover and a plant that later in the spring would produce yellow flowers. When they were steamed, Katniss said the clover tasted like green peas. I told her the roots from the yellow flowering plant reminded me of parsnips. This small addition to our diet was appreciated. We looked forward to the arrival of migrating fowl and the chance for Katniss to put her bow to use again once the herring harvest was complete.

While the villagers were busy with replenishing our food stores, the tyee had me occupied with a new project. The men wore an implement they called a _cheetoolth_. The tyee said it was a war club. A leather strap or woven cedar rope was wound around its hilt, and it was hung about their necks, under their mantles. The tyee wanted a special one made from metal.

I studied the item he gave me as a template. Nearly two feet in length, it was made from a heavy piece of whale bone and shaped somewhat like a small, slender paddle. It’s tapered blade was fashioned similar to a double-edged sword and was decorated with engraved designs representing stars, moons, and animals. The pommel at the top of the hilt was carved in the form of an animal’s head.

I searched through my supply of remaining iron and selected a piece of sufficient size. I was determined to make something that would impress the tyee so that he’d be amenable to Katniss and I resuming our weekly lake retreats. After sketching ideas in the dirt, I went to work.

Late one afternoon several days later, Katniss startled me, silently materializing at my side. Ever since that Sunday I’d awoken to her staring at me, my heart missed a beat whenever she did that.

“If I have to dig up one more clam…” Her voice trailed off and she rotated her shoulders to release the tension. She sighed. “At least it’s better than looking for oysters and mussels.” Harvesting those shellfish required wading into the tide pools. The seawater was still cold and the rocks could be slippery and jagged. “I’ll be back to stripping herring eggs tomorrow.”

We were silent, reflecting on the significance. It had been a year.

“I’ll give your back a rub later if you like,” I offered, teasing her with a wide grin to break the solemn mood.

She laughed. “Very tempting. How’s your project coming?”

I’d engraved designs down the centre of the blade and was in the process of completing the hilt, embedding pieces of abalone shells for eyes in the eagle's head-shaped pommel above the wooden grip. The iridescent circles gazed up at me, their lustre hinting at the mysteries they held inside.

“Have a look and tell me what you think,” I said, eager to show off my work.

She leaned into me to inspect it, her shoulder pressing against mine. The electricity of that small contact flowed through me, creating a sweet ache in my chest.

“It’s lovely,” she said, running her fingers over the the top of the handle. “The shells for the eyes are a nice touch.” She picked up the cheetoolth, rotating it in her hands. Her eyes focussed on the writing I’d engraved along the blade:

 _Ignis aurum probat_. Fire tests gold.

She finished the Latin phrase aloud, “ _Miseria fortes viros_.” Adversity tests strong men.

A playful smirk curled her lips. “Appropriate for a blacksmith.”

I could feel a little colour warm my face. “It was a favourite saying of my father’s. He didn’t know Latin, but he was familiar with that one. He had a sign with it in our house above the mantel in our parlour. If he ever caught my brother or me whining about some hardship we had to endure, he’d recite it to us.”

She handed the club back to me. “C’awa’quu’as will be pleased, I’m certain.”

“I hope so. I’m going to give it to him tomorrow once I’ve polished it and ask him if we can go to the lake again.”

Katniss groaned. “That would be wonderful. I’m out of practice with my bow. We really need to wash our clothing, too. And a break from gathering shellfish or stripping cedar bark would be heaven.”

I took her hand and led her to the edge of the sand embankment overlooking the cove.

“Here,” I said, guiding her to sit in front of me. To my delight, she didn’t resist when I took a seat behind her and laid my hands on her shoulders. I began to knead the base of her neck with my thumbs.

“Oooh...” she murmured, which made me grin.

When I was done, we sat on the grass, side by side, and looked out over the waves rolling in on the steep, sandy beach. It had been an overcast day, but the clouds in the west thinned enough that we were rewarded with a sunset. Golden-orange streaked through the clouds, eventually fading into deeper pinks and burnished reds. I glanced at Katniss out of the corner of my eye, admiring how the sun’s rays made her face glow. But I noticed thin lines creasing her forehead.

“What is it?” I asked.

She turned to face me. “Haven’t you noticed the strain around the village?”

I couldn’t say I had. I’d been too engrossed in making the cheetoolth.

“I thought it would go away once we left Tashees. But the chiefs have been conferring ever since we returned to the coast,” she explained.

I quirked my eyebrows, curious to hear what she’d observed.

Katniss’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “And now even the women are talking amongst themselves. Something has them worried.”

We decided to keep our eyes and ears open to try to discover what was behind the agitated state of our village, but it turned out to not be necessary— I was informed of the cause the next day I presented my cheetoolth to C’awa’quu’as.

He examined my design with a gleam in his eye. He gripped the handle and wielded it about, getting a feel for the weight.

“Wocash, wocash,” he said with delight, which filled me with pride.

I’d rehearsed in my head all morning the request to resume our Sunday getaways and was about to speak when his expression became intense. The tyee turned to me, fervour lighting up his dark eyes. He picked up one of the muskets I’d been cleaning that day and placed it in my hands.

With his head high and his shoulders back, he said, “Now we prepare.”

“Prepare for what, Tyee?” I asked, anxiety making the muscles across my shoulder tense as my fingers tightened on the gun.

“We are going to war.”

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:**   Fearing for Peeta's life, Katniss learns the identity of the man in her dreams.

 **NOTES:**   _The Wolf Ritual_ is a ceremony in which hereditary privileges and social status, and the right to names, songs, and dances were bestowed on male children. It was held at the beginning of winter at Tahsis. Participants wore carved wolf masks, pretending to kidnap the young initiates. Days later, the boys were returned, having learned and earned their new privileges. Jewitt was excluded the first winter he spent in Tahsis, as I've depicted here. It's uncertain if it was because he was seen as an outsider who had no place at this sacred event or if his period of exile was actually a form of initiation into the tribe.

Historically, the _Potlatch_ was a gift-giving feast common among the First Nations tribes of the northwest coastal region. It served various purposes, for example: determining status and hierarchy among the tribal leaders through the demonstration of wealth and generosity in the sharing of goods, and establishing entitlement to resources on land and in water. The Potlatch was banned by the Canadian Federal Government in an amendment to the Indian Act between 1884 and 1951. 

 _pelpelth_ : black mica ( _biotite_ )

 _oolichan_ : also known as "eulachon." They were often referred to as candlefish because of their high oil content— when dried, a person could place a wick in the fish's mouth and it would burn like a candle. The trade routes between the various villages became known as "grease trails" because of the trade in this valuable oil.

Springbank clover ( _Trifolium wormskioldii_  ) and Pacific Silverweed—a type of potentilla ( _Argentina egedii)_ are mentioned in this chapter. The steamed rhizones of both were important food crops.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Katniss**

The moment I saw Peeta’s face, I knew something was terribly wrong.

I’d been busy stripping herring eggs from the evergreen branches laying across the drying racks, just as I’d done the previous year. But my eyes had been darting towards the forge, trying to ascertain if Peeta’s request was successful. C’awa’quu’as, standing with his back to me, had blocked my view of Peeta, frustrating my efforts.

Finally, the tyee walked away. And my heart dropped.

Peeta’s dread couldn’t be because of the war club he’d made for the tyee— it was stunning. Risking a scolding for leaving the racks, I rushed over to the forge, the pressure in my chest increasing with each step.

“What is it?” I demanded, my voice laced with anxiety.

A muscle under Peeta’s left eye twitched as he stared at me. Laying the musket he was holding at his feet, he told me the tyee’s news. A week from now men of the village would be departing in canoes to confront an enemy.

C’awa’quu’as had declared war.

“I’m to go with them,” Peeta said, “as one of the tyee’s personal bodyguards.”

“Who’ll protect _you?”_ I gasped. Despite his intimate knowledge of making and maintaining knives and muskets, Peeta wasn’t a warrior. I frowned as the thought begged another question. “He would put his life in your hands?”

It was an absurd notion, but the answer came to me at the same time Peeta replied, “He knows I have reasons to be motivated.”

As much as I resented our captivity, without C’awa’quu’as’s protection, our lives would be in jeopardy.

A stern voice barked at me to get back to work, so I reluctantly left Peeta to resume filling my basket with the herring eggs. No one bothered me, but I could’ve sworn that disapproving eyes were scrutinizing me more than ever. It was impossible to know if it was only a figment of my paranoia.

The mood in the village became sombre once C’awa’quu’as made his announcement. It was similar to how they prepared for whaling— solemn prayers, fasting, abstinence from sex— but one addition to the activities was especially disturbing. Peeta was not exempted.

I came into the longhouse the first day of this ritual and saw him sitting on our bed, dabbing his chest with his damp neckerchief. His fair skin, not yet tanned from the summer sun, was crisscrossed with angry, weeping, red stripes.

“Peeta!” I exclaimed. I took a seat beside him. “Let me see your back.”

He shifted to face away from me. I stared at his back, but it wasn’t only the welts that held my gaze. My eyes travelled from his broad shoulders down to the breechcloth tied low on his hips— the only item of clothing he was wearing. It shouldn’t have been shocking to me anymore— we’d both acclimated to the Mowachaht sensibilities when it came to attire. But I’d never seen Peeta in this state of undress.

After keeping well bundled during the chilly months in Tashees, I was struck by the extra girth he’d acquired over the winter, how the strong but lean definition of before had… matured. My hand hovered, frozen above his skin, and my face became warm. I was ashamed for entertaining such thoughts when my attention should be on his injuries.

Peeta glanced over his shoulder at me, snapping me out of my daze. At my touch a muscle in his upper back twitched, but it was me who winced. The heat of anger I felt at his having to endure this cruelty helped cover my earlier blush.

All the men of fighting age were required to retreat to the water’s edge every day and strip themselves of their mantles. They would alternate between bathing and lashing themselves with bunches of hemlock branches laced with thorny briars to the point of drawing blood.

I asked what possible purpose this insane self-punishment could have. Peeta told me the tyee claimed it would harden the skin and physically and mentally prepare them for battle.

“What good is it to go into battle with lacerations?” There was no hiding the bitter outrage in my voice as I dabbed his neckerchief in warm water and gently cleaned his back. There wasn’t a lot of blood flowing, which gave me marginal relief, but the skin was very raw and inflamed.

“It won’t go on for much longer,” Peeta said, “so there’ll be time to let them heal.” I helped him into his shirt. “It looks worse than it feels,” he insisted, but his involuntary flinch as he flexed to slip his arms into the sleeves left me dubious of his assurances. That night when he lay down to sleep he was careful to not roll onto his back. Lying face to face, I muttered that I thought it was barbaric.

Peeta tried to make light of it. “Nothing better to get one in an ornery mood for battle than a little self-flagellation.”

I wasn’t having any of it. “This is serious!” I hissed under my breath.

He sighed, and I felt guilty. It was hard enough facing what was coming without me making it worse with my scorn.

“We have some time. If we could sneak off for a bit, I could teach you how to use the bow,” I offered as an apology. He cocked an eyebrow and gave me a doubtful half-smile. “Maybe not,” I murmured. The bow was my weapon, and even my ability had a ways to go before I’d call myself talented in its use. And these targets would be firing back. There was no way I could make Peeta proficient enough to defend himself in so little time. “What weapon do you feel most comfortable with?”

“I’m fair with a musket, but reloading takes time. If it’s close quarters, I’m better off with a dagger or knife. They’re lighter and simpler.” His eyes grew clouded and the smile vanished. “I was really proud of that war club. It’s strange that as an armourer I’ve spent so much time working with weapons but have never given much thought to their use against people.”

“Not everything was intended to be used this way,” I said. “The _Tribute_ wasn’t a warship, and her cargo was meant to be used primarily for hunting and the fur trade.”

For the rest of the week I often caught Peeta practicing— sometimes alone, sometimes with other men— how to wield a knife or dagger. A couple days before they were to leave, to my relief they stopped lashing themselves with the briars when they performed the daily ritual bathing. Despite the increased readiness, the mood around the village remained sombre.

The final night before the departure, my stomach was in knots. I’d been careful to mask my worry, not wanting to add to Peeta’s burdens or undermine his confidence. I wondered how much of his apparent mettle was an act for my sake.

“Take off your shirt,” I commanded, which made him cock his eyebrow. “There’s blood on it.”

“That’s dried from yesterday,” he explained. “It’s not bothering me anymore.” I doubted he would’ve told me even if it did.

“Let me be judge of that,” I insisted more firmly, tugging the shirt out from his trousers.

He smirked a little. “If you want me to take off my clothing, you only need to ask. You don’t have to ruffle your tail feathers about it.”

His brazen teasing elicited an impatient huff from me, but, as he pulled the shirt over his head, I had to suppress a grin. It was reassuring to see this side of Peeta— funny, unabashed, a little cocky. I hoped it would help him in the days to come. It also set butterflies alive in my belly, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

His hair was loose and had grown as long as the rest of the men in the village, the waves grazing his shoulder blades. As my hand swept it to the side, the muscles rippled under my touch. The thin lacerations had faded to pink, and there was minimal scabbing.

“How are you feeling, really?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat on the edge of our bed. I took a seat slightly behind him, watching the change in his demeanour with wary concern.

“As prepared as I can be.” His earlier light tone became pensive. “I keep reminding myself I have no choice. There’s no way a week of training will turn me into a warrior, and the thought of killing anyone…” His jaw clenched. “But I know one thing— protecting the tyee is imperative to our safety… no matter what.”

I didn’t want to hear about noble sacrifice. “If it’s between saving him or yourself, make sure it’s you.”

He let go of a deep breath and leaned towards me a little. Anxious and gloomy, I circled my arms around his body and rested my cheek against his back.

“I feel so powerless staying behind,” I whispered against his skin. Tomorrow would be the first time in a year we wouldn’t have the other to lean on through our tribulations.

His hands clasped mine against his chest. “This helps. It relaxes me.”

It was calming for me, too, feeling the warmth of his skin against my cheek and his sturdy torso in my arms. He shifted away so he could stretch out on the mattress, his head cradled in one hand. The other hand reached up to touch the end of one of my braids.

“Come here,” he said. I stretched out beside him, my head pillowed on his outstretched arm, watching him.

“There’s nothing to say or do.” He stared at the ceiling, but his eyes were seeing something beyond the shadows playing over the planks. “I don’t want to think about it for a few hours. Any sleep I can get tonight would be good.”

I should’ve been comforting him, but instead his hand rubbed slow circles over my back. When I stirred to look at him, his eyes were closed, and he had a tranquil smile on his face. I settled my head back down, and he nestled it under his chin. If letting him hold me helped, I was happy to indulge him. As the tight knot gripping my body gave way to sleep, I acknowledged it was an indulgence for me, too. Right or wrong, given what was coming, I decided I could live with that.

By late morning the next day, the warriors took up their arms and exited the longhouses with the rest of their kin behind them. Peeta and I tarried outside the entrance while the villagers gathered on the beach.

“How do I look?” he asked, his steely stoicism a jarring contrast to the warmth I associated with him.

I was used to seeing the men of the village decorate their faces and bodies with paint. The tyee and his chiefs distinguished themselves with red ochre, reserved for the nobility, but all the men used black paint. It was made from powdered charcoal— Peeta’s forge providing a rich source, a fact which now took on ominous significance for him. Blended with grease and pelpelth— the dark, shiny sand— the paste created raised, raven-coloured lines, dots, and geometric patterns.

I’d held the looking glass from his shaving kit for him as Peeta applied the designs to his cheeks and forehead with grim concentration. His creative talent was evident in the figures on his face and arms— there were more on his chest, peeking out from under his mantle— but I knew he’d taken little pleasure in it. His blond hair was slicked away from his face and tied high on the back of his head in the fashion of the other men.

Despite the impressive job he’d done, his appearance was unsettling to me— the severity created by the absence of the careless, blond waves, the dark designs dueling with his fair skin. Even in the muted light of the overcast day, the glittering effect of the pelpelth in the black paint was striking. But regardless of how dramatic the effect, no malice existed in his kind, blue eyes.

I touched the scar above his left eyebrow. “You look terrifying,” I answered. I needed for him to believe it.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he answered with a smirk. I fidgeted with the belt that secured his cedar mantle around his waist, a dagger at his hip, avoiding looking him in the eye. His mouth softened into a rueful smile. “Don’t worry, Katniss. I don’t intend to go down without a fight.”

Peeta touched my shoulder, slipped past me, and headed for the beach. I felt a kind of desperation rise inside me as I trailed close behind. When I grabbed his arm to stop him, I couldn’t find my voice.

He misunderstood my anxiety, because he gripped my forearms and brought his face close to mine, his voice a rough whisper.

“You’ll be fine. I know we said running away was suicidal. But if you don’t see me or the tyee in the returning canoes, leave. Stay on the coast, hide, and wait for a ship. You can hunt, you’ve learned how to identify edible foods, you know how to build a fire and a shelter. You don’t need me—”

My panic transformed into anger. I had no intention of letting him off the hook. “Don’t you dare!” I snapped. “Don’t you give up before you’ve even started!” And I shoved him away from me.

His eyes grew wide with shock, and then he grimaced at my recrimination. Seeing the hurt in his face, fear bubbled back to the surface, and to my dismay I started to cry. His anguished expression subsided. This time when he reached out to touch me, an apology on his lips, I flung my arms around his waist and laid my head against his chest. I felt his arms circle me, and we stood there, holding on to each other. I closed my eyes, feeling his solid body against mine, greedy for a few more precious seconds.

I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. With as much resolve in my voice as I could muster given the turbulent emotions roaring through me, I whispered, “There’s only one way I’m leaving here. And it’s with the two of us together. Do whatever you have to.” I could feel tears, fear and anger, and maybe something else I didn’t want to name, starting to resurface, but I blinked them away, fighting to stay strong for Peeta’s sake.

“I’ll do my best.” Beneath fearsome black eyebrows, his blue eyes became piercing, staring into mine. “But I need to know you’re going to be all right.”

I nodded, not wanting him to have my safety on his mind, distracting him. But, no matter what he said, I had my own requirement.

“And I need you to come back.”

A call to depart was given, and Peeta placed a soft kiss on my forehead. And then he slipped from my grasp.

C’awa’quu’as was the last to board the canoes. I glowered as he bid his wives and children goodbye. But, when I saw how worry lines creased Yaqtsin’iq’s otherwise indomitable face and the way the tyee’s posture lost its rigidity as he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers, my bitterness wavered despite my desire to hate them. All the village waited in respectful silence as the two monarchs closed their eyes in their final leavetaking.

Once the tyee was seated, the twenty-five canoes, each carrying between fifteen and twenty men, pushed off from the shore. I stood on the beach with the other women, the men too old to fight, and the children, my eyes straining to hold on to Peeta’s blond head as the canoes faded into the mist.

I happened to glance at the queen and saw how she held her head high and proud, but her eyes were glassy with constrained emotion. She caught me staring, and I dropped my gaze.

The villagers remained for a few moments like statues, but then Yaqtsin’iq turned to go to her longhouse, and the rest of the people scattered, each to their own tasks. A flock of ducks quacked overhead, catching my attention, and, suddenly, the morose faces around the village became more than I could stand.

Defiance displacing anguish, I ran inside and grabbed my bow and quiver from our storage box. I saw Peeta’s red speckled shirt. I lifted it to my face and breathed in the scent of him for a few seconds, then I tossed it, along with the rest of our dirty clothing, into a basket, and left the longhouse. I marched down to the beach, ready for confrontation, but no one seemed to care. Even the children were subdued— no laughter or spirited play as they fidgeted outside their homes.

Tossing everything into a small canoe, I paddled north around the point. Beaching the vessel at the top of the pebbled cove, I followed the path to the lake. I burned up a little of my pent-up anxiety with the mindless exertion of scrubbing and wringing out the clothing.

Other than the bloodstains, Peeta’s shirt was in reasonable shape. But his trousers were now threadbare. Since we’d returned to Yuquot, he’d often worn the cedar clothing, insisting he didn’t want to be a bother when I suggested I should sew him a new pair. This was no longer acceptable. I was determined to remedy the problem before he returned.

While the laundry was hanging to dry, I turned my attention to hunting. By early afternoon I canoed back with four ducks— my best day hunting yet barely registered with me. Entering the longhouse with little care for the repercussions, I marched up to the queen who sat, rocking her youngest child, murmuring in soothing tones. Yaqtsin’iq looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes, and my surly mood abated. I laid the birds at her feet as was the custom, wondering how she would react to learning a woman— a slave no less— had used a man’s weapon.

Without comment, she reached forward and, taking two ducks by their legs, handed them back to me to keep for my own. I shook my head and, pointing to a bolt of sturdy, linen fabric, explained I wished for my husband to have new clothing when he came home. She must have been moved by my conviction in the men’s success, because she gave her consent and insisted I keep the birds, too.

Once the ducks were prepared, despite how much I should enjoy a break from the usual fare we ate, I had little appetite. So I shared the meat with the other female slaves.

After, using the original trousers as a template but adjusting for the extra inches Peeta had gained in the last year, I cut out the fabric. I worked well past midnight. I told myself there was little time to complete the project, but in truth I was scared to go to sleep.

Even when exhaustion and weary eyes forced me to stop for the night, sleep refused to come. I twisted and tossed, trying to find a comfortable position. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I’d slept alone for six months after Gale had left Fort Vancouver for his new posting, and it’d hardly made an impression. A part of him, the part that united us, had left me long before that day.

But after a year of having Peeta beside me, the narrow bed felt empty and cold. And without the anchor of his hand, I knew whatever nightmares were guaranteed to torment me would be unbearable.

I went to our box, pulled out the capote coat I’d made for him, and wrapped it around me. I lay with my knees drawn up to my chest, whispered prayers for his safety on my lips. I prayed as much for my sake as his. When dreaded sleep came, it was filled with horrifying images of war clubs, screams, and blood.

A few hours later, I awoke with a feverish energy fueled by too little rest. After spending the requisite number of hours engaged in my usual slave chores, I retired to my compartment desperate to finish sewing the fabric pieces together by the light of my little fire. Everyone was asleep by the time I attached the last of the buttons I’d saved from Peeta’s old trousers. Tired, but satisfied, I folded the garment and placed it in the storage box, hoping that my efforts would be rewarded with restful sleep.

~~~~~ 

_I drag myself into the canoe on my own strength, spitting the salt water from my mouth and gasping for breath. My brow knits in confusion. A bank of dense fog engulfs everything. My rescuer is nowhere to be found._

_“Where are you?” I cry, but my voice is swallowed by the mist._

_I take ahold of the paddle, the cresting waves pointing the way towards shore. With each stroke I grow more anxious. I call out, again and again, but my pleas go unanswered. The shushing sound of sand against wood sends me wading to shore, and I run through the forest, the mist condensing on my skin, forming beads of water that join the damp trail left by my dripping dress._

_I’m driven on by my need to find him, convinced my rescuer is in danger and needs me. It’s difficult to see in this translucent world, but I keep going, hunting for a trail to track, searching behind ancient evergreens and underneath rock outcroppings, but there are too many places to hide and the greyness presses in from all sides. One time I think I feel his fingers caress my cheek, but it is only a soft cedar bough. My knees sink into the moist, mossy floor of the forest._

_My head pops up when I’m certain I hear the faint clinking of a hammer on metal nearby. There’s a whiff of smoke, but the grey vapours are mingled with the fog. I catch a hint of cinnamon in the air. I rise to my feet, trying to locate the source, when a hummingbird swoops past, stops, and hovers for a moment, its shiny, dark eyes peering into mine. A memory comes to mind._

_“Watch them with me. They’ll make you smile.”_

_In a flash, the tiny bird spins and disappears into the mist, and I leap to my feet to follow it. Thorny brambles snag my dress and lash my skin, but I persist. I hear the little tweet of my hummingbird from within some shrubbery._

_My heart beating with anticipation, I come around the cluster of pink rose bushes, but when I reach the sheltered spot no one is there._

_“You see? You rescued yourself this time,” the voice says out of the gloom. “You don’t need me to survive. You know the way home.”_

_I could go home... To Gale... Tiny fissures radiate from deep inside my chest as I stare at the empty rose bushes… Or perhaps to Prim._

_“But I stayed for you,” I lament._

I awoke shivering, my skin clammy from perspiration as the familiar cadence of my rescuer’s voice followed me from my dream, Peeta’s words whispering in my head. They were one and the same. I reached for his body, but my hands clutched only the empty blanket.

Pulling his capote coat tighter around my frame, I began to rock back and forth as two realities overwhelmed me, my face damp from tears. It wasn’t just that we were two survivors, partners of circumstance, bending to a fate beyond our control. _It was him._ I couldn’t face losing him.

Time and adversity had transformed Peeta before my eyes, and I hadn’t allowed myself to see it. I was a thirty-one-year-old woman who’d been dreaming about an eighteen-year-old young man. More perplexing was how the fact that I was bound to someone else came to me as an afterthought.

Late that afternoon a shout summoned us to the beach. No one spoke, and children were hushed as we listened. The hint of men’s chanting drifted through the cloying fog, growing more real with each wave that rolled onto the sand. It elicited cries from our congregation, but emotions were constrained as we waited to see who was, and wasn’t, amongst the returning men.

I turned my head when I heard drumming behind me. Many of the villagers had vacated the beach to climb onto the rooftops to beat out a welcoming rhythm. Children ran around, laughing in excitement. It mingled with the triumphant songs emanating across the water, intensifying until the beach was filled with a joyous clamour. The noise became deafening.

I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. The scene was not unlike the day Peeta and I had been captured, but this time it elicited an entirely different reaction inside me. I was filled with hopeful anticipation. When the canoes emerged from the mist and I saw a blond head amongst the paddlers, I was swept up along with the rest of the village in a euphoria I couldn’t contain. Thoughts of war and bloodshed were pushed aside by the overwhelming happiness at seeing Peeta again. Soon I would be able to touch him. I didn’t care about anything else.

The men jumped from the canoes into the shallows and were met by the older men who helped drag the vessels ashore. Some women ran to greet their men, while others rushed to the longhouses to begin preparations for a celebration feast.

One breathless step at a time, I walked to the edge of the beach. Peeta met me halfway. He was about to speak when a choked cry escaped my throat, and I reached for him. His arms wrapped, like a vice grip, around my body. We said nothing, but stood like that until an order was given to unload the canoes, and we pulled away from each other.

That’s when I saw the scared, despondent faces of unfamiliar women, some with children clinging to them.

“Captured slaves,” Peeta whispered.

There were no men or elderly amongst these enemy ranks. This human chattel, along with all the booty taken in conquest, was hustled into the various longhouses as the rewards taken by each household chief, including the tyee.

But my thoughts were only for Peeta, so, as soon as the canoes were emptied and the people retreated to their longhouses to begin celebrations, I took his hand and led him to our compartment. I made him sit on our bed and warmed some water.

Wringing out a scrap of my old petticoat, I sat beside him and brought it to his face to wash away the war paint. I was taken back to another time when we’d been strangers and I’d attended to him this way under much different circumstances.

Peeta remained quiet, his expression neutral, but his eyes stayed fixed on me as I wiped away the black and red smeared across his forehead. The blue eyes looking back at me, once clear and warm like a summer sky, were now as impenetrable as those shell eyes on C’awa’quu’as’s war club, as unfathomable as the dark waters of Nootka Sound.

When I wrung out the cloth and saw the residue from the paint, I frowned. Where had the red come from?

Alarmed, I turned back to Peeta, my eyes scanning his face. “This is blood! Are you injured?”

His stoic expression broke into anguish. He shook his head but said nothing. That’s when I noticed that his mantle was also covered in blood stains.

“Oh, Peeta, “ I whispered.

I had him strip down to his breechcloth, tossing the soiled cedar garment under the bed where neither of us would have to look at it, and continued to clean all traces of the violence and gore from his face, shoulders, and arms. When I reached his chest my hand hesitated. There was a black figure drawn over his heart. Hidden beneath his mantle, I hadn’t seen it before.

“What’s this?” I asked gently, lifting my eyes to his. He made no response, but a tiny spark of warmth returned to his eyes.

It was a hummingbird, wings and tail feathers spread, beak defiantly pointing up to the sky. My finger touched the design, and my smile caused the corner of Peeta’s mouth to tick up a little. Reluctantly, I washed it away along with the rest of the war paint.

I released his hair and wiped the cloth over it. It needed a more thorough washing, but after combing the waves free with my fingers, I decided it could wait until morning.

Questions burned in my brain, but the exhausted slump of Peeta’s shoulders kept them at bay. I had him put on his clean shirt and new trousers. A small hurt flashed in my chest when he failed to register my handiwork, and I silently reprimanded myself for my selfishness.

Unimportant matters such as bathing and new clothes, along with all my questions, could wait until he was ready. Right now the only thing that mattered was that he was safe. Though I ached with compassion for him, imagining what he must have endured, my heart rejoiced.

“You came home,” I whispered, unable to hide the giddy expression on my face. He touched my cheek and, with a little nod, gave me a weary smile.

The people were gathering in the hall, the feast being served, so I stood and held out my hand. Peeta released a deep sigh, took ahold of it, and rose from the bed. And we went to join the victory celebration.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:**   Peeta is haunted by his experience, but he makes a startling discovery about Katniss.

 **NOTES:** Black mica or _biotite_ (pelpelth) is distinguished from other micas for its high iron content (sometimes referred to as "iron mica"), providing an interesting bit of symbolism for a story about a blacksmith.

Inter-tribal conflict was common in the region, especially during the fur-trade era. Warfare was often over control of valuable resources— resistance to surrendering sovereignty to another leader or a confederation of tribes. The acquisition of slaves was another motivation.

The Maquinna (the hereditary name of the  _Tyee Ha'wilth—_  the Mowachaht high chief) of Jewitt's time and his more famous predecessor of the early fur-trade era were noted for their preference for confederation-building between tribes. Warfare was a last result to consolidate power. The leader during the period of "Forged Love" did go to war against a neighbouring tribe, the Muchalaht, over control of valuable salmon-spawning streams. After a prolonged conflict, the two tribes eventually joined and are now known officially as the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations.

C'awa'quu'as is an amalgam of the renowned Maquinna and his more aggressive, autocratic rival at Clayoquot Sound: Wickaninnish of the Tla-o-qui-aht nation. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Peeta**

The images came at me in the night, as tangible as the realities of the day but distorted, slowed down, so that each horror manifested in vivid, macabre detail. Again and again, I succumbed to exhaustion, hoping each time I would find rest, only for it to start all over again.

_The tyee’s war club slicing through the air... blood peppering my skin... the painted faces of men feverish from their victory, illuminated by the flames as the longhouses burn... the triumphant shouts clashing with the screams of the dying._

_I watch it all in a daze. I want to cover my ears, but I’m clenching the hilt of the dagger in my hand. It’s warm and wet in my fingers, and with revulsion I toss it away from me. But it lies on the ground, taunting me with its red slick. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. The tyee’s eyes are wide, and he is smiling at me._

I awakened gasping for breath, the nightmares leaving me in a cold sweat, my mouth dry and my muscles taut. I must not have thrashed around because Katniss remained undisturbed by my internal torment. Instead, she sighed and murmured softly in her sleep from a good dream. Probably about _him_.

It was still dark outside when I got up. I sat for a moment on the edge of our bed, watching her. I was thankful I hadn’t woken her, but, even in my agitated state, a flicker of jealousy sparked in my heart for this dream man who shared her nights.

My trousers lay on top of our storage box where I’d carelessly tossed them the night before. I’d been too preoccupied, too weary to notice they were new. I pulled them on and tucked in my shirt, regretting my oversight. Katniss deserved better.

But expressing my gratitude would have to wait. Because I needed to get out of the longhouse. The first hint of dawn tinted the sky over my right shoulder as I walked north, following the long crescent of the beach. When I reached the end of the strand, I turned to face the water, my eyes fixed on the eastern horizon.

Waves from a receding tide splashed over reef and rocks, leaving a trail of white foam as it drained into shallow tidepools. But directly in front of me, sheltered by the rocky point that hooked out into the waves, the water lapped serenely on the grey sand and burbled over the small pebbles that made up the shoreline.

The beating in my chest quickened as the sky brightened. Any moment now the sun would appear above the inky mountains, burning through the thin clouds. It was the hour of heavy sleep and greatest weakness, the tyee said. It was the hour we’d attacked.

I sucked in a breath of ocean air. It was clean and carried the scent of brine— a welcome contrast to the filthy stench of death that stuck to me. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as the sun’s rays pierced the sky. The steady pulse of the waves beckoned, calling me to climb down the steep bank. I followed the retreating water a few steps and waited.

A surge of cold water swallowed and stung my bare feet, splashing up my shins and drenching my new trousers. Cursing my thoughtlessness, I scrambled back to higher land and stripped them off. As an afterthought, I removed my shirt, too, and carefully folded the clothing on a rock safe from the surf. Naked, I walked into the water.

When the next swell rolled in at waist height, I dived into it. The frigid water assaulted my skin and made my breath catch. A million icy needles brought relief, but soon I grew immune to the water’s effect, my body becoming numb. The cloying sensation returned, spreading over me, worse than before. Only the sting of another affliction could quell the worse one crawling over my skin. Frustrated, I returned to the shallows.

My breathing became laboured when I caught the whiff of burning cedar in the pristine air. Coarse sand oozed up between my toes. I crouched in ankle-deep water and scooped up a handful. I started with my hands, scrubbing the grit against my skin, embracing the discomfort, needing more of it. I began scouring my legs next.

Soon, I was vigorously sanding my chest and back and arms, rubbing until my skin burned. It was better than the cold water. My breath came in gasps as suffocating smoke filled my nostrils, overpowering the healthy brine. The muscles in my arms ached. But no matter how thorough I was, no matter how red and raw my skin, I couldn’t rid myself of the invisible stain of violence. The moment I let up, my affliction flared up again. I wondered if there were thorny brambles nearby. Maybe I could lash it away, harden not only my skin but my mind to the misery.

I rose from my crouched stance and turned to scan the forest but froze when my eyes fell on Katniss in her distinctive cotton print dress midway down the beach. I hadn’t noticed the arrival of a small group of women, armed with digging sticks to harvest shellfish at low tide.  

She left the other women and hurried north to where I stood, but her pace slowed when she drew near. Her eyes grew wide and her expression became stricken as she scanned me head to toe. She brought her hand to her mouth and looked away.

_Please don’t turn away._

“I don’t care if you see me.” I was too defeated to be ashamed of my nakedness or the abuse I’d inflicted on myself.

At the sound of my voice, she dropped her hand and lifted her face to regard me with regained composure.

_What do you see when you look at me?_

As she waded out into the waves, a breeze whipped around us, setting free the long, loose curls framing her face, prompting her to tuck them behind her ears. She looked different, but it wasn’t clear to me how.

Her eyes locked onto mine as she stopped in front of me. I expected to see my ugliness reflected there, but instead all I noticed was how beautiful they were lit up in the pale sunlight. Slowly, as if she were afraid I might recoil from her touch, she reached out a hand and smoothed back the dripping hair from my face.

She smiled and spoke in low, soothing tones. “I’m glad you washed your hair. How about we do something about this sand.” Her hand on my arm guided me to deeper water, where she rinsed the grit away. The cold salt water calmed my burning skin, and I held my breath, anticipating the return of torment. But this time it only made me shiver.

“You’re cold.” Taking my hand, she led me out of the water, up the slope to dry sand, towards the rock where I’d left my clothing.

Katniss didn’t wear petticoats when she worked by the tidepools because she said they were too constraining when they got wet. Trailing behind her, my eyes were drawn to the thin, damp layers of her dress and chemise and how they hugged the curve of her perfect legs.

Releasing my hand, she picked up my shirt and helped pull it over my head. She was reaching for my trousers when a lock of dark hair escaped from behind her ear, and I realized what was different about her. Instead of the usual two braids, a single, carelessly plaited one slipped from her back over her left shoulder. That’s why there were so many loose ringlets.

“You changed your hair,” I said, pulling on the trousers. “It looks pretty.”

She gave a little snort and tucked the strand back in place. “When I woke, you were gone, and I got worried. I was in a hurry.” But I think I saw a little colour rise in her cheeks. Or maybe it was the sun now fully risen above the mountains.

“Thank you for making these for me.” Dexterity was returning to my numb fingers by the time I had the buttons fastened. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything last night.” She shook her head as if it were nothing. “They’re a good fit,” I added, trying to smile for her sake.

Her eyes flicked over me as she tossed her braid to the back. “You’re not the only one who pays attention.” A bit of warmth seeped into my blood at her admission. She sat down and patted the sand beside her. “Let’s rest awhile and watch the sun come up.”

“What about the others?” I said, settling in beside her. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.” The other women were stooped over in the tidepools, busy prying mussels from the rocks.

“They won’t say anything. I shared food with them while you were away.”

_While I was away._

The long silence was broken when she asked, “What happened, Peeta?”

I hunched my shoulders and gripped my knees. Katniss laid her hand against my back. Staring out over the water, I sucked in a breath, and the words came flowing out.

“It was a small village. We crept into their longhouses before dawn, as they slept. When we were in position, the tyee let out a cry. He grabbed their chief’s head, pulled it back, and slit his throat. Everything went mad after that.”

My voice started to waver as I described the horrors I’d witnessed— the terror as the villagers scrambled to defend themselves, the blood spilled as war clubs, tomahawks, knives, and musket shot hit their targets. How my own dagger joined the carnage as everything ceased to exist except my duty to protect the tyee and to stay alive.

“It was over quickly. We outnumbered them, and they were unprepared. They didn’t stand a chance.” I stopped to catch my breath. “A few escaped to the forest, and the women and children our chiefs wished to take as slaves survived, but any man of fighting age, the elderly or infirm, were all slaughtered. It was a bloodbath.”

“I wondered why so few of our men were injured, not a single death on our side,” Katniss murmured.

How many had I wounded? How many had I killed? In the dark chaos, blinded by panic, it was impossible to say. But one death by my hand accused me. I swallowed down the bile in my throat.

I told Katniss how C’awa’quu’as directed us to gather every salmon hanging from the ceiling racks along with any other valuables, including the captured slaves. Our plundered goods were rounded up and loaded into the canoes. The tyee was standing outside the entrance of their chief’s longhouse, me at his side, when he called for the buildings to be burned with the bodies inside.

As the flames caught, the tyee turned to address our men, raising his war club as our men cheered. A flash of movement from within the smoke made me turn.

“I was overwrought, my body reacting out of instinct. I stabbed the attacker a second before he would’ve brought a tomahawk down on the tyee.” I stared at my hands.

“You saved his life,” Katniss whispered. “And probably ours, too.”

I shook my head. “It was the chief’s son, who’d hidden amongst the corpses of his family, pretending to be dead. When it was over, I saw him. He was young— thirteen, fourteen at the most.” I started to shake, convicted by my guilt. “I killed a child.”

The hand that had been rubbing my back slipped around my waist, and she laid her head on my shoulder. “Oh, Peeta.”

“After, when I asked the tyee why, what it was for, he said we were claiming what was rightfully ours. I don’t know if we were seizing control of their chief’s streams or they had fished the salmon in ours without paying tribute to the tyee.” I turned to her. “All I know is that I took an innocent life.”

“It’s why you were in the water this morning.”

I closed my eyes. “I hoped the water might wash the feeling away, but…” I shook my head. “The sand… I thought if I could make it hurt enough on the outside, I could somehow harden myself to it, like we did before battle.”

She laid her free hand over one of mine. “I’d rather see you feel something than nothing at all.” Her fingers gripped me so tightly it hurt. It felt good.

“ _Miseria fortes viros_.” My father’s favourite motto tasted bitter on my tongue, causing my mouth to curl into a sneer. “I feel more like wretched slag than refined gold.”

The warmth of her hands and the soft tickle of her hair fluttering over my skin in the light breeze soothed me. The unbearable misery loosened its grip as I rested my cheek against her forehead and let myself bathe in the unsullied sensuality of her body so close to mine. We sat in silence until the sounds of villagers stirring made us both turn to the south.

Katniss sighed and patted my knee. “I’d better get to work.” She stood and brushed the sand from her dress. “Are you going to be all right?”

I had no idea, but I nodded and got to my feet. She took my arm as we retraced our path along the beach.

~~~~~

That evening when I came into the longhouse, Katniss was standing on our box hanging a large, dried salmon from our ceiling racks. At least fifteen more lay in a basket at her feet.

“What’s this?” I asked, my spine going rigid.

She turned to me, her expression wary, and tipped her head towards C’awa’quu’as, sitting with his family. “He said it was your share.” She got down from the box and searched my eyes. “I thought it best to accept it graciously.”

_My share._

I stared at the fish. Every muscle in my body tensed. Katniss didn’t move as I picked up the basket and walked down the hall. People— lower chiefs and commoners who were preparing their meals— looked up with interest as I passed them. I walked straight to where the tyee’s newly captured slaves were huddled— four women and six children— in a single compartment.

They shrank back from me when I entered their space, fearful of my intentions. I laid the salmon at their feet. I squatted down, and, patting the head of a little girl, I said to her mother that I wished for them to have it. When I stood to leave, I scanned their faces and whispered that I was sorry. They stared at me like mute statues, but the child I’d touched grinned and hugged a salmon nearly as big as she was to her little chest.

Emotions churned inside me, but I kept them caged walking back to our compartment, my head high and face forward. I was being watched, but only one set of eyes mattered.

C’awa’quu’as had given me, a slave, a gift. It was his place to be generous and my place to accept the tokens of his favour for the honour they reflected on him. And I’d gone and given it away to other slaves… slaves I’d helped him capture… whose families I’d helped him to...

It was symbolic in the big scheme— I could hardly make restitution for their loss or protect them from their fate. But with hardly a thought for Katniss, I’d risked insulting our benefactor. In that moment, I hadn’t cared, but now I wasn’t so sure. There was no way to know how he’d interpret my actions.

Before entering our compartment, I forced myself to glance in his direction. C’awa’quu’as regarded me out of the corner of his eye, but his attention was diverted by his youngest son crawling into his lap. The child squealed with delight as his father tossed him in the air. I dropped my gaze and joined Katniss beside our fire.

“That was reckless,” she said, but she didn’t look upset. Which was good because my heart was pounding from my impulsive act. “But I’m proud of you.”

“I gave away food.”

“We know how to get more.” She lifted her chin, her smile almost a smirk. It bolstered my flagging confidence. In a single motion we turned our heads to C’awa’quu’as when the tyee gave a hearty laugh as he played with his son. All seemed to be forgotten.

“The tyee gave us another gift,” Katniss said. I quirked my eyebrows at her in expectation. “He said we could resume our Sunday lake trips.” Her cheeks held a rosy glow, and I felt even better.

I’d survived. Not unscathed, but Katniss and I were still safe. I had a need to ask for forgiveness and reasons to give thanks. Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.

“How long until Sunday?” I joked.

She chuckled. “Who knows? Tomorrow sounds good to me.”

Despite the improvement in my state of mind, within an hour of falling asleep, I awoke from the scent of smoke wafting through my dreams and the sounds of screams ringing in my head. I stayed awake after that. Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt Katniss stir beside me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Nightmares.”

She frowned. “I know what that’s like. You should’ve woken me. You’ve helped me through so many.”

“You haven’t had any for a while. They’re mostly good dreams now.”

She looked surprised. “How do you know I’m having a good dream?”

“Because you look happy.” I thought of her kissing Gale, and a pain, as if from the fine tip of a dagger, nicked my heart. “Do they make you happy?”

She smiled at me strangely, as if she were a little sad. “Yes.”

Imagining Katniss dreaming about her husband was depressing. A great weariness pressed down on me, and I slumped under its weight.

“I’m so tired.”

Her hand came up and stroked my hair. “Try to sleep now,” she said. “I’ll keep watch over you if the nightmares come. I promise.”

We snuggled down under the blanket, facing each other, our noses almost touching. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the whisper of her breath on my face, her thumb tracing the scar above my eye.

Over a year ago, Darius had warned me that nothing good would come from fantasizing about Katniss. If we were ever rescued, and I had to let the dream of her go, he’d be right.

But he was wrong, too.

I thought of all the times her touch had brought me comfort— the day she’d bravely confronted the queen for my sake so she could stitch my head wound, the way she rubbed my back when it ached, how she’d fretted over my lacerations and sought to soothe my anxiety before the battle. Her companionship.

But this morning I’d learned something else. Desiring Katniss had muted my pain. As far as I was concerned, losing myself in her beauty and her healing touch had saved me today.

~~~~~

I woke the next morning feeling rested. When I turned my head to check on Katniss, her eyes fluttered open, dull from lack of sleep. She’d kept her promise, and I couldn’t decide what I felt more— guilt or gratitude.

Less than an hour later, we’d pushed away from shore and were paddling up the sound. The day was overcast, but clouds were thinning in the west, which I took as a good sign. Katniss stopped paddling to tuck the loose strands that escaped her single braid behind her ears, and I couldn’t not smile.

I stepped out of the canoe to drag it onto the pebbled shore and was wading back to unload our basket when Katniss stood up to disembark. The canoe rocked and she stumbled, but I caught her under the arms in time.

My hands grazed the sides of her breasts, and for a second neither of us moved as I held her— her back flush against my chest, her hands overtop mine. I was sorry when she regained her footing and pulled away from me.

She murmured a thank you and said, “The waves caught me by surprise.”

“You didn’t get enough sleep.”

She reached into the canoe for her bow. “I’ll go to the lake and see if I can bring in a few ducks, or maybe there’re geese now. I heard honking yesterday.”

“Why don’t you have a nap instead.” I laid the basket on the dry ground and grabbed a small bundle from it. Pushing the canoe off the shore, I jumped in, feeling energized.

“Where’re you going?” she asked from the water’s edge.

“I want to try out my new fish hooks. I’ll take care of food today.” I picked up a paddle. “When you wake up from your nap, get a fire started, and we’ll cook up my catch. I’ll be back in no time.”

She smirked at me. “Cocky.”

Waggling my eyebrows at her, I spun the canoe around and paddled for the open water. A hundred yards out, I baited my hook with a piece of herring and dropped the long line over the side. Despite my expressed confidence, I didn’t have much experience catching bottomfish. The hook got tangled in kelp on the first cast, but I got lucky on the next and brought in a rockfish. I grinned with satisfaction at my conquest, guessing it to weigh around four pounds.

I’d just cast the line out again when the sun burned through the fragile cloud layer. My stomach rumbled, and the gentle rocking of the canoe as it rode the undulating waves brought an image to mind of Katniss— relaxed on the blanket amongst those rose bushes, a look of pride in her eyes as I returned so quickly with my fish. I didn’t want to waste another minute of my free day out on the water when I could be enjoying it with her.

Once on the beach, I laid the fish on a flat stone and grabbed my knife to gut it. The moment the blade sliced into its belly, my vision distorted and my chest seized up, robbing my lungs of air. I dropped the fish and the knife into the water and plunged my hands in the waves to scour the gore from them.

I doubled over with my hands clutching my knees, concentrating on getting my panic under control. _Breathe… breathe…_

I shook the images from my head.  _Not today... Don't spoil today._

When the pounding of my heart slowed, I searched the water for my knife. The surge of the waves made the blade glint when it caught the sun. Fortunately, the bright red colour of the fish made it easy to spot, too. Gritting my teeth, I finished cleaning and scaling it. Careful of its many sharp spines, I strung the fish on the line and headed up the slope, bypassing the lake and cutting through the trees on a direct route to our favourite spot.

I sniffed the air for smoke, but neither the scent nor the sight of a fire were detectable. I figured Katniss must still be napping. Or maybe she’d gone hunting after all. I stepped clear of the trees. And froze in my tracks. My eyes grew wide and my jaw dropped when I saw her.

Katniss was reclined on the blanket. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep. I withdrew behind a large tree and watched in astonishment. The bodice of her dress was unfastened, and her hand… it was touching her breast… laid bare before my eyes. My pulse started to race. A tiny part of my brain said to look away, but it had far too much competition to win out.

Ever since she’d kissed me, I’d resisted the temptation to indulge my physical urges. I’d tried to convince myself that engaging in that guilty gratification would only make things harder for me in the long run. But after yesterday, and now— seeing her this way— all my logic and resistance dissolved. Before I even realized what I was doing, I had unbuttoned the flap on my trousers.

Her hand slipped over to fondle the other breast, the two perfect mounds and their dusky-coloured peaks fully exposed to my hungry gaze. She flexed her legs and her skirts slid up, exposing her legs to the top of her thighs. My mouth went dry and my head began to swim. Then her knees fell apart in front of me. I reached out with my free hand, leaning against the tree trunk to anchor myself.

My brain was caught in a maelstrom of visual and physical stimula. Just when I thought nothing could be more evocative, my eyes became transfixed as her hand slid beneath the skirt to the juncture of her thighs. She began to touch herself, and, as our hands moved in synchronicity, I was lost in the vortex.

I came a few seconds later. Dazed and panting after the release, I continued to watch through hooded eyes. The way her fingers moved, the writhing of her hips, and the sounds of her low moans flooded my senses. I drank it all in, mesmerized and unable to turn away, but my legs lost their strength as the fervour with which she took her pleasure intensified.

I’d carried the idea of women as precious, delicate treasures whom gentlemen protected, cherished, and sweetly savoured but whom brutish rakes conquered and plundered. As surely as seeing her in the throes of ecstasy had brought me to my knees, stripping away my feeble restraint, I learned the truth.

_“There’s a reason they name the great storms after women.”_

Darius had laughed at me and my youthful, romantic notions.

“ _They’ll fill yer sails and take ye places you never seen before. But, mark my words, they’ll just as easily send a man to the bottom of the sea or smash him against the rocks. They’ll make ye think they are as fragile as flowers, but they’re sirens in disguise._ _So keep yer wits about ye, lad, when ye wade into those waters.”_

I understood it now.

Katniss wasn’t defenceless or passive. She was the hummingbird— small and indomitable and unfettered, with wings to carry her where she willed. I was the submissive flower fixed to the ground, pining for her ravishing. She was the one with the power to possess, not me.

The sun bathed us, and my eyes stared in captivation as she reached the zenith of her passion. I sucked in a breath of anticipation as her back arched and she let out a cry—

That’s when I heard it, a single word uttered to the sky as a plea, on Katniss’s lips in her moment of ecstasy:

“ _Peeta._ ”

And, with that single word, the world unravelled, the past unfolding before me. I saw new meaning in her cryptic comments about Gale. How, when I held back, she moved in, giving her affection more freely— a subtle but undeniable dance between us. It wasn’t Gale or some other imagined man she kissed in her dreams.

It was me!

My mind racing from the revelation, I staggered away from the tree. But my trousers, still loose about my knees, hobbled my motion, and my foot landed on a dry branch. My presence was given away by a resounding: _snap!_

I rushed to tuck in my shirt and was attempting to button my trousers when I heard Katniss’s breathless voice. “Peeta?”

She sat up, wide-eyed with shock, her hair a wild mess of curls and clinging leaves around her head. We stared at each other in our disheveled states, sucking in breath, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Some part of me told me to turn away and run, while another entreated me to beg for her forgiveness. But a stronger force kept me rooted. Under the strength of what I’d seen and heard, unashamed, I stood my ground.

Katniss was the first to blink, her shoulders sagging in resignation. She turned aside to fix her hair and rearrange her clothing. I finished fastening my buttons and walked over to where she sat hugging her knees against her chest, the hem of her dress tucked around her ankles. It was different from when she’d kissed me. This time we both knew what was going on.

Her head was down and her eyes glued to her feet, so I knelt in front of her where she had to pay attention to me. And waited for her to say something.

“I’m not free,” she said.

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t mean that we’re slaves, Peeta. I have a husband.”

I could hear self-condemnation in her voice. My elation was tempered by the thought she could disparage what had— no, what _was_ taking place between us.

“You have two husbands. One real and one pretend. But which is real _for you?”_ I remembered her nightmares. The ones where she was left drowning and forsaken. “The man of your nightmares… or the one in your dreams.”

She looked up at me then. “Is it so simple, Peeta? I let my dreams decide? Because it’s been over a year, and Gale’s not looking for me, but you would never give up?”

“No,” I said, meeting her gaze. “It’s because a beloved wife on the eve of reuniting with her husband after months apart doesn’t stand at the rail in the dark of night and think about taking her life.”

Her countenance became clouded, withdrawn. “You don’t understand.”

In my heightened state of emotion, it felt like a slap in the face. “Why? You think I’m too young or too dim to grasp the truth?”

She shook her head. “No. Because it’s not just about Gale. It’s me.” Her eyes silvered with anguish, dampening the flames of my wounded pride. “I ruin lives, Peeta. I burn down dreams and hopes.”

At the sound of despair in her voice, my own hurt feelings were forgotten. I leaned a little closer and gave a small smile. “Do you forget who you’re talking to? I forge new things out of fire. Heat doesn’t scare me. And besides,” I added with an incredulous chuckle, “how can you say that? You’re perfect.”

“No. I’m not,” she snapped. “You asked me once if I had children. The reason I’m forsaken is because I’m barren.”

Katniss let the words sink in, shame and misery emanating from her eyes. “Gale offered me a life free from poverty by marrying me, but I failed him. Prim wanted me to have what I couldn’t produce myself, loved me so much she pledged her next child to me. And she died before giving birth. Don’t you see? Everything I touch, I hurt.” She sucked in a breath and straightened her back. “It’s no good loving me. I won’t let you waste your life on me.”

I combed through her words and tried to fathom her fears. But in the end, none of it could persuade me to alter my course, to abandon my conviction.

“Do the salmon care about the consequences as they batter themselves swimming against the current? All they know is the undeniable pull of the river calling them home.”

“They go there to reproduce,” she said morosely, her eyes glassy. “And, whether they make it or not, they end up dead.”

I smiled and answered gently, “Do you think the ones that don’t reach the spawning beds love the river any less?”

She let out a tiny sob. Her hand reached out, as if to touch my face, but she hesitated, her fingers curling into a fist. Before she could withdraw it, I grasped her wrist and laid her palm against my cheek. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. It was the same hand she’d used to pleasure herself, and it carried the heady, healing scent I associated with the sea.

“All I know is what we have here and now, Katniss. You were the one who told me we can’t count on the future or on rescue. This is our life. The only way I know how to live it is with you.”

“But I’m still broken,” she whispered, and I felt a cool drop on the back of my hand.

I opened my eyes, wondering if she was crying, but it was a drop of rain. Dark clouds crowding the western sky obscured the sun, stealing away its radiant heat. More fat drops began to fall.

Katniss twisted around towards the open ocean. “There’s a storm coming our way.”

“Come on,” I said, getting to my feet. “We should get back before it gets worse.” I held out my hand.

Katniss looked at it, and then her eyes lifted to mine, grey and turbulent with unshed tears. I saw apologies in their depth, but I shook my head and gave her a small smile. She placed her hand in mine.

A flash of lightning startled us both. It was followed by a rumble of thunder, and the rain drops multiplied as we hastily gathered our things and ran to the canoe.  

The waves rolled over the gunwales as we paddled back to Friendly Cove. By the time we reached the shore, the storm had become a tempest. The cedars thrashed their branches like flailing arms. Though it was barely midday, the sky was as dark as twilight. Villagers were on top of the longhouses, chanting, wailing, raising their entreaties to _Quahootze_ , their deity, for the violent storm to pass. They drummed on the roof planks, their many bodies holding the boards down as the winds buffeted and threatened to dislodge them.

Without a word, Katniss and I joined them. The squall pelted my body, my clothing was drenched and clinging, but I hardly felt the cold. I became assimilated into the ritual, awed by the brilliant electrical display and the booming thunder that reverberated through my bones.

The mournful howling of the winds could have emanated from my own soul. All I could do was join in the lamentations of those around me, beating the roof planks until the muscles in my arms burned, hoping for deliverance.

A bolt of lightning flashed across the leaden sky, illuminating Katniss a few yards away. Her eyes were bright, charged with the electricity crackling around us, between us. Our hands pounded on the boards with a synchronized beat in the midst of discordant rhythms. To my ear, it was the manifestation of our true nature taken root. As surely as the mighty cedars stood their ground as the tempests assailed us, we still remained, as we had from the beginning, together.   

Katniss and I had forged a bond in the fiery crucible of our captivity.

A peace came over me. Forging was a slow process of annealing and hammering, honing and polishing. It required a steady hand and a committed vision. It didn’t happen gently, or without effort or even some pain. But inevitably it yielded something stronger, something of worth.

 _Ignis aurum probat_.

It needed patience.

My peripheral vision blurred, and the only thing remaining clear was Katniss looking back at me. Maybe she wasn’t ready to put a name to what we shared yet, but it was all right.

I could wait.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:**   Peeta may be patient, but he (and readers) won't have to wait much longer. A crisis changes everything for Katniss. 

 **NOTES:** _Quahootze_ was the name Jewitt gave for a deity in his account. My research indicates that Jewitt may have misinterpreted Mowachaht religious beliefs. Rituals to control or influence supernatural forces and spirits appear to have been the central focus in their spirituality rather than any specific, named god(s). 


	12. Chapter 12

**Forged Love - Chapter 12**

**Katniss**

The storm had moved on hours ago, leaving the night sky scrubbed clean of clouds. Under moonglow and twinkling stars, I watched tranquil waves splash on the dark beach, the white foam casting its faint luminescence on the sand.

The whole village was eerily quiet that evening— the only sounds were someone coughing to my left and a crying infant in the longhouse to my right. It was as if everyone’s expelled energy had been swallowed up by the tempest and carried away over the mountains. At this late hour, I was the only one outside.

The storm may have passed, but I hugged myself to contain the medley of emotions that had roiled inside me all day. Guilt, sadness, regret… I may as well add longing to the list, now that it was all out in the open.

I’d known for some time that Peeta had feelings for me— he didn’t go to great lengths to hide it. He was a young man after all, full of the lusty passions that went with his age. It wasn’t really about me. Our close bond made some level of attraction inevitable.

At least that’s what I’d told myself.

But his words had surprised me. The depth of conviction went far beyond infatuation or friendship, his sweet certainty answering my attempts to dissuade him.

Neither of us had spoken while eating the fish he’d caught. I’d stolen glances at Peeta over dinner— my mind vacillating between how I’d rejected him and how I couldn’t stop imagining it’d been his hands on me rather than my own— when he’d broken the silence.

“You told me I was wrong to judge the company men like Gale, or even the ones who were already married back east, who took country wives, separating from them when deemed necessary.”

He paused, and I held my breath, listening as he continued. “You reminded me how sometimes compromises are needed to accommodate the practicalities and loneliness of the frontier.”

Peeta’s voice held no trace of accusation, but his piercing blue eyes challenged me. “Why do you hold yourself to a harsher standard than those men?”

_Why indeed?_

It was this question that had brought me out into the night. In an environment not yet governed by the edicts of church and state, the company had created their own code— a blend of Native tradition and economic sensibility. Regardless, Gale and I were both British, and we’d married with the heritage of our birth ingrained in our minds. And there were other reasons why I should say no— how I was thirteen years older than Peeta, how my failings would inevitably ruin his life.

I bought my hands to my face as I relived what I’d done. My skin burned hot in the cool night air, not only for the way I’d revealed myself and its significance to Peeta, but for how frightening and rapturous it had been for me. My eyes looked up and gazed at the heavens. For a brief moment, I’d slipped my bonds, shed the restrictive mores that constrained me, and had hovered like those constellations, a wild thing— unburdened and free.

But, like my dreams, it was a fantasy that had no place in the light of day.

I’d delayed returning to the longhouse, but, if I stayed out much longer, I was afraid Peeta would come looking for me. I didn’t want for him to worry or think I was avoiding him.

I sighed at the entrance to our chamber, watching the steady rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest, the sight of him looking so peaceful in sleep surprising me. Why wouldn’t he rest well? He’d set free the truth in his heart. I was the one shackled by irreconcilable conflict.

He looked younger in sleep. _He is young_ , I told myself. But he’d changed over the many months— and not just physically. I’d watched as adversity refined him, burning away some of the innocence and creating someone deeper, bolder, and undeniably masculine. I gazed at the waves of blond hair spilling carelessly across his brow, the long eyelashes fanning out on the top of cheekbones. His fair skin glowed with healthy colour.

If anyone could emanate light from their very soul it would be Peeta— as bright as the sunbeams this morning when we’d caught each other, as hot as the coals in his forge. A beacon that had pulled me back from the edge. The world wasn’t so dark, so oppressively cold, with him nearby. Giving in would be the easy thing. How long until I destroyed his hope the way I did anyone else’s who came close? Until I snuffed out his light?

But, of all the reasons stopping me, a selfish one overshadowed the rest. It was the paradox of rescue that was both my hope and fear. After all the losses— my parents, Prim, the solid, uncomplicated friendship I’d once had with Gale— I wasn’t certain I could live through another. So long as we were captives and we only had each other, it might be possible. But rescue changed everything. Freedom would mean having to let him go. Which meant there could be no real freedom for me.

A flicker of movement down the hall drew my attention to two dark eyes watching me, shiny in the firelight. The little girl was half hidden, peeking above the low partition of the new captives’ compartment. She was the child who’d fearlessly claimed Peeta’s offered salmon when the others had shrunk in fear. A quick scan of the longhouse revealed she and I were the only occupants awake. What thoughts kept her from sleep? I gave a small wave. The moment she realized I’d seen her, her eyes grew wide, and she disappeared behind the wall. For a moment the dilemma plaguing me was forgotten, and a smile sneaked onto my face.

I stripped down to my chemise, folded my dress, and laid it inside our storage box. Slipping under the blanket, I turned my head to study Peeta’s profile. His wind-chapped lips were parted slightly, the bottom one, full and pink, tempting me to wake him with a kiss, to feel the rough texture of his stubbled jaw against my cheek... to give in.

Instead, I slid my hand over to where his lay between us. He exhaled, turning a little towards me, and licked his lips. Without waking, he threaded his fingers with mine the way he always did. The unconditionality of the gesture made me want to cry. I gripped his hand and closed my eyes.

The next morning, Peeta was his familiar sunny and unassuming self, and nothing more was said about our Sunday encounter. I ignored the pang of loss buried under the protective layers of my relief.

~~~~~ 

On the fifth day after the storm, I was busy with several other slave women pounding the cedar bark we’d stripped the previous day. The little girl with the shining, inquisitive eyes was sent by her mother to collect fresh water to keep the fibres damp and pliable as we prepared them for weaving. The hefty cedar bent box in the hands of such a small child tugged at my heart.

I turned to her mother and asked, “What’s your name?”

She lifted her downcast face for the first time in the hours we’d been working together. Her eyes were dull, and her expression chilled me with its dolor. The resemblance to my mother in the months following my father’s death came to mind.

She regarded me for several, long seconds before answering, “I am _Uushyaamis_.” I doubted it was true, but in one word she told me everything I needed to know: _Sorrow._

Her daughter came into view with her oversized burden, the water sloshing onto her dress as she lugged it. With a determined grunt, she plopped the box down beside us. Her spirit gave me a moment of unexpected happiness. Her cheeks were ruddy from the effort, and she wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.

Captivity for someone so young was a reprehensible thought, and I wondered how long before her cruel fate crushed her. She sat a short distance away, weaving thin strands of cedar into little braids that she tied around her wrist. She was tiny, but her dexterity made me think that she may be older than she first appeared. Four or maybe five.

“You have a pretty little girl. She’s very brave, given what you have lived through.”

Her mother gazed at her without smiling. “It would be better if she were dead.”

The words were a knife in the heart, making me flinch. Her daughter was within hearing distance, and yet, she didn’t react. The woman’s eyes narrowed as she looked at me. My shock seemed to puzzle her.

“There is no one left to pay ransom for us,” she explained and went back to work.

When we were done for the day, I joined Peeta at his forge. I told him about my brief conversation with the slave woman, and how bothered I was by how she’d already given up. “What will happen to her little girl?”

His eyes looked over my shoulder. “Speaking of which, we have a spy.”

I turned to see the child standing at the corner of the longhouse. Peeta beckoned to her, and she came forward at his invitation. Her eyes alighted on the polished pieces of jewelry he’d made.

Peeta smiled and knelt down in front of her. Wrapping his fingers around her tiny bicep and feigning amazement, he said, “You’re a strong one,” which made her grin. Her mother’s voice called out, and she ran off. “She seems pretty resilient to me.”

The next day, I caught the little girl lurking on the edge of the beach as I dug for clams. It was a long ways from the village, but her mother was nowhere in sight. It only took my acknowledging smile, and she was at my side, her eyes scouring the sand for the telltale tiny holes, tossing the shellfish into my basket as I unearthed them. She skipped along the beach beside me with her share of the harvest when we returned to the village.

Before I followed my little helper inside, I overheard a chief’s wife outside her longhouse berating two of the new slaves for their laziness. The one facing me looked haggard, stooping over the cod and halibut she’d been ordered to fillet so they could be dried. Though the day was overcast, she pulled her woven hat down to shield her face. Her reddened nose and eyes looked as if she’d been crying.

A hacking bout of coughing from somewhere in the village made me look past them at the men and women working outside the other longhouses. It dawned on me how few of our new captives were amongst them, and it made me wonder where they were and what they were doing.

That evening as Peeta and I ate a meal of steamed clams and clover roots, the little slave girl appeared outside our compartment.

“Our shadow is back,” Peeta chuckled.

I turned to look over my shoulder as he waved her in. Instead of heading for Peeta as I’d expected, she plunked herself down on my lap. Her hand took ahold of a loose strand of my hair and stretched the curl down. She smiled as it sprung back into a ringlet when she released it. She did it over and over.

“She’s good at making friends,” Peeta said.

“Reminds me of you when we first arrived. Very clever strategist.” I smirked at Peeta as she snatched a piece of roasted root that he held out to her.

Even at her tender age, she knew how to survive. No, not survive— her mother was surviving. This girl was determined to grasp onto more than that. She was happy in the moment, seeking out and offering affection, seemingly immune to the despondency of others around her.

I became entranced, looking on in silence as Peeta tried to guess her name. She refused to tell him, delighted by this new game.

Peeta’s fingers stroked his chin, his eyes narrowed in deep thought.

“Is it _Wiihtaasa?”_ It meant _rascal_ , which made her grin and shake her head. “Hmmm. Maybe it’s _Wipaxmis?”_ Peeta teased. She giggled and, reaching across, pinched his forearm at being called a pest. “Ouch! It must be _Tanakmis_ then.” She wrinkled her nose and gave a huff. A _tanakmis_ was a mosquito.

Peeta shook his head. “No. I’m calling you Tanakmis until you tell me the truth.” She pouted but stubbornly refused to give in.

Watching Peeta play with this little girl brought a smile to my face, but a sudden melancholy washed over me. I thought of the children I would never bear. And the ones he deserved to have.

Tanakmis— I didn’t know what else to call her— coughed, so I shifted us both to the side where there was less smoke from our little fire. I wiped her runny nose with the edge of my sleeve. Her cheeks were flushed from sitting so close to the fire. Or so I thought until I placed a hand on her forehead.

“Peeta! She has a fever!”

 ~~~~~

A closer inspection revealed her red face was actually the beginnings of a rash, and terror rushed through me. It wasn’t only little Tanakmis— we soon learned all the captive women and children in our longhouse showed symptoms, including her mother.

“Do you think it’s smallpox?” Peeta asked.

It was my worst fear. We hadn’t experienced a smallpox outbreak since I’d lived at Fort Vancouver, but Prim’s husband Henry had described it to me. I bottled up my panic and examined the women and children captives in our longhouse more closely, looking for the indicative blister-like sores. I reviewed the symptoms I’d seen— the coughing, the running noses, and the reddened, light-sensitive eyes.

I rechecked the rashes and breathed a small, guilty sigh of relief.

“It looks like measles,” I told Peeta. “You know my sister and I got it soon after we arrived in Manchester.”

He nodded. “I remember— Prim ended up with pneumonia so bad that it scarred her lungs.”

My voice was tight with urgency. “What about you?”

His eyes and attention were on Tanakmis. He lifted her head and brought a clamshell of water to her lips to drink. “It went through the school I attended. One of my friends died from complications.”

“Good,” I said. He looked up at me, perplexed at my insensitive response. “I’ve never heard of anyone having it twice. If we’ve had it, perhaps we're safe from getting it again,” I explained.

Peeta didn’t say anything. Tanakmis whimpered, and he smoothed the hair from her feverish forehead. A few minutes later he asked, “What can we do?”

I looked around and shook my head. “Try to keep them comfortable. Protect their eyes from bright light so they don’t suffer blindness.” There wasn’t much we could do. These diseases were bad for our people, but they were devastating for the Native population.

Tanakmis didn’t only have the hardship of being a slave— she could die. I saw the mothers, weakened from sickness themselves, trying to soothe their suffering children. For the first time I wondered if my childless fate wasn’t such a burden after all.

We learned that nearly all the newly captured slaves were ill. Within a week, it had spread to our villagers. The shaman went from building to building, performing healing rituals.

Several chiefs and commoners angrily confronted C’awa’quu’as, their fiery glares directed at me and Peeta. This was the white man’s disease, and we were the only white people around to blame. But the tyee refused to listen to their calls for our deaths.

To our relief, little Tanakmis’s fever broke a week later, and she began to recover. But others began to die, starting with the captured slaves. By the end of the third week of the outbreak, it claimed the first Mowachaht villager— a high-ranking chief.

That’s when Peeta got scared. I’d been too busy attending to the ill to notice the growing danger. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me into our chamber. “The tyee’s son is getting worse. If he dies, too…”

He was the boy to whom Peeta had given the brass buttons on the first day. If he died, the odds were strong we’d no longer be able to count on the tyee’s protection. Grief and rage could turn his volatile nature against us.

“Gather everything we need that we can take in a canoe, but not so as to attract attention,” he whispered, his face flushed with urgency. “When they gather for the funeral of the chief, we’ll sneak away. Tomorrow’s Sunday— maybe they won’t suspect anything.”

“What about Tanakmis?” It startled me how quickly she’d wormed her way into my heart.

Peeta’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with grim determination… and regret. “We can’t, Katniss. We can’t help her— we’ll only put her at greater risk if they come after us. At least we know she’s getting better. We can take some hope in that.”

 ~~~~~

Midway through the next day, my arms were screaming in protest as I paddled, but Peeta’s urgency and my fear pushed me despite the pain. The violent rolling of our small canoe in the open ocean frightened me, but any closer to shore and the rough shore break would have swamped us.

We’d been paddling for hours, and so far no one had come after us. Peeta had sent us south towards the village, now destroyed, that they’d attacked, believing the area’s absence of people made it our safest bet.

I felt our pace slacken, and I turned just in time to see Peeta muffling a cough into his sleeve. He was slumped over his paddle, gasping for breath. I panicked when he lifted his face— splotchy with the beginnings of rash— to look at me with rheumy, red-tinted eyes.

“Peeta! You’re sick!”

He turned away and scanned the coastline. He pointed with his paddle. “There. Head for that cove.”

My mind rebelled against the truth before my eyes. Not a single person I’d known had been stricken with measles twice. But my assumptions weren’t true. The fragile hope that we were safe crumbled… Tanakmis! My heart clenched. I’d believed she was safe, too— Peeta had reassured me, even as he must’ve known he was succumbing for a second time himself…

Unless… I frowned as a new possibility presented itself. As exhausted as I was, a combination of anger and anxiety sent a burst of energy coursing through my body as I attacked the water with my paddle.

We rode the treacherous surf past the narrow entrance, churning water crashing on the rock walls. Not far into the cove, I saw a heavy mist to our right. When we came alongside, I realized it was steam rising from a series of pools cascading down to the sea. Waves rolled over the rocks, flooding the lowest pool.

A short distance beyond the pools there was a break in the rocky shoreline. We drove the canoe onto the narrow, pebbled beach, and with a grunt we hauled it out of the water. Peeta insisted we keep dragging it, laden with all our possessions, up the slope and into the trees, where it was concealed from view from the water. We collapsed onto the ground.

“You told me you’d had the measles!” I yelled. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to slap or hug him.

He coughed, no longer needing to conceal it, before replying. “I didn’t say that. I just left out the part that I hadn’t had it. I withdrew from school around the time when it arrived.”

How had I missed the first symptoms? Too preoccupied trying to help others and under the false sense of security we were both safe— it had made me oblivious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I hoped maybe it wouldn’t infect me, like back then. I didn’t want you to worry.” Another bout of coughing, and his voice dropped to a murmur. “We should’ve left right away. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

My anger evaporated when he squinted at me, redness clouding his beautiful blue eyes, looking contrite.

“It’s all right,” I sighed. “Besides, it doesn’t change anything. As soon as you entered that village, you could’ve been exposed.”

I stood and looked around. We needed to find a suitable place to set up camp, preferably near fresh water. Peeta sat with his head down, his hands covering his eyes. Fortunately, the dense forest offered shade, and the sky was growing dark with rain clouds and approaching nightfall. But we were in for a wet night if we didn’t come up with some kind of shelter. An idea came to mind. I hated losing the use of the canoe, but, if we were being pursued, it was best to stay off the water anyway.

“Peeta?” He removed his hands and looked at me. “Let’s use the canoe for a roof. Can you collect branches and boughs to make into walls?” He wouldn’t strain his eyes if he stayed in the trees. “I want to go check out those pools, see if there’s fresh water.”

He nodded, and we set off on our tasks. The faint scent of sulphur filled my lungs as I scooped up a handful of the steaming water. I spit out the salty liquid. I had an urge to strip off my clothing, damp from exertion and sea spray, and slip into the pool. After over a year of cold lake baths or awkward attempts to discreetly wash in the longhouse, a hot bath sounded heavenly. But right now drinkable water was the priority.

To my relief there was a small stream a few minutes’ walk in the opposite direction from where we’d dropped our canoe. Neither of us had the inclination to drag our stuff anywhere, so we stayed put, right in the centre of the two water sources.

Once we’d emptied our things from the canoe, we tipped it upside down with the bow propped up on the pile of rocks we’d cleared from our chosen site. The rain started to fall as we built hasty panels from waxy cedar boughs to act as walls and camouflage, leaving a small opening near the stern of the fifteen-foot-long canoe.

The rash on Peeta’s neck and face glowed angrily even in the fading light. I ordered him inside and handed him our supplies, which he piled under the stern. After a last look around, I crawled inside the narrow shelter, joining Peeta on the cedar blanket he’d spread over the ground. The clouds spilled a torrent moments later, the sheets of rain drumming on the hull of the canoe.

Fatigue and illness had taken its toll on Peeta, and he was asleep within minutes. The steady downpour soon pulled me under, too.

 ~~~~~

_Something is very wrong. It isn’t water choking me— it’s a hot, thick darkness, pressing down, sucking the air from my lungs. I call out, but Peeta doesn’t answer. Fear drives me on, flailing in the black world, when an ember of light appears, growing brighter._

_I move to the source, only to discover it’s Peeta, painted in red ochre, radiant in the colour of chiefs. The image is so impressive I stop and stare. Until I realize it isn’t war paint. It’s blood from many lacerations._

_A voice is screaming— it sounds like mine… another voice is calling my name… I reach out but recoil. Because he is on fire._

I awoke in the dark and reached for Peeta, who was mumbling in his sleep. His skin was burning with fever.

He grew sicker as the night passed. The heat he radiated helped me stay warm, but it was miserable for him. Between sips of water to soothe his raw throat, he kept apologizing until I wrapped the blankets and my arms around him in the cramped shelter and ordered him to stop it.

“You just need a few days’ rest.” I smoothed back the damp hair from his feverish brow until he returned to sleep. Somehow, in the early hours I drifted off as well.

Filtered morning sunlight peeked into our stuffy shelter a few hours later. A thought of Prim and her damaged lungs propelled me outside. Fresh air flowed under the canoe after taking down the walls, but, concerned about the brightness, I tied Peeta’s neckerchief around his eyes without rousing him.

I made him drink water throughout the day. And waited… and prayed… But, by late afternoon, the menacing red rash had spread, taunting me everywhere his clothing didn’t conceal.

And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. The thought that he could die, leaving me alone, became my reality.

Overwrought with anxiety, I fussed around our shelter, stringing up a line to air out our extra blanket, and considered washing some of our clothing in the pools. I checked our food, knowing the meagre stores we’d brought wouldn’t last long. My bow stared at me, telling me to go hunt, forage... _anything._

But I couldn’t leave Peeta’s side. I was convinced that if I let him out of my sight, he would slip away. So I laid down with my head close to his and watched him, hoping for any improvement.

Dark thoughts hounded me. Even if Peeta survived, the odds of our survival were slim. If we were found, the tyee would kill us. Or another tribe could place us into a harsher captivity than we’d had before. The chance of a ship coming to our rescue were even slimmer now. There was no reason for anyone— Hudson’s Bay Company or the American traders who also sailed this region— to come close enough to spot us with no safe harbour or inhabited Native settlement on this stretch of coast.

The near certainty that we’d perish left me in despair. It wasn’t so tragic for me. I’d had a life, such as it was, made my choices and lived them out. But Peeta was so young. The unfairness that he could die here without having had a chance, denied a full life, shattered me.

My throat constricted, and I blinked tears from my eyes when he stirred, his hand reaching out blindly for me, until it found my face.

“Don’t cry, Katniss,” he said in a raspy voice.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and guided some water to his lips. “Do you think you could eat a little?” I reached into our supplies for a bit of dried yama berries. He scrunched up his nose, but a kiss to his cheek coaxed him to take a small bite.

That night, when I went to close up the walls, he asked me to leave one side open. It was a clear night, and he’d slipped off the neckerchief after the sun set. He said he wanted to see the stars. But, in the middle of the night when I opened my eyes to check on him, he was looking at me. His eyes were glassy, and his fever had climbed even higher.

He stirred but didn’t wake the next morning when my lips brushed his forehead to check his temperature, which was unchanged. My kiss lingered a little longer than needed, because he was still here. He hadn’t left me. But he refused to eat anything that day.

An eagle swooped low over our camp, riding a current of air across the cove before disappearing into the trees beyond. And I was struck by a profound realization that, in my desperation, I’d overlooked— we’d escaped. Peeta had taken the lead, getting us out of Yuquot. I’d followed without recognizing what we’d done. We were still in danger, but we were free of our captors.

How many times had Peeta saved my life?

All that day Peeta refused to eat and mostly slept. I only left him to fetch water. It was hard to take any pleasure in freedom when he remained so ill. It all felt so meaningless.

I should’ve told Peeta the truth that Sunday he’d revealed his heart to me. Told him that I loved him. But I hadn’t. Convinced that, so long as there was a chance we’d return to our old lives, I wouldn’t be able to endure the consequences.

Everyone should know what it was to rest in the safe embrace of unflinching certainty in the storm. To be seen with eyes of pure adoration. To be desired with an all-consuming hunger.

Everyone deserved to be loved to the ends of their being by one person in their lifetime.

I lay alongside Peeta and thought again of his luminescence. The idea that it might flicker out of existence awoke a fierce protectiveness in me. If he came through, if I could do my best to give him a life in return, for whatever time we had... maybe it could make up for the rest of it.

I closed my eyes to make a silent promise, when his hand touched my cheek.

“You take good care of me,” Peeta whispered.

I smiled through my fear and laid my hand over his. His eyes weren’t so glazed looking, and hope fluttered inside my heart. I moved my head under his chin, my hand resting on his chest where his shirt lay open. I felt the rash under my fingers. His fingers combed through my hair.

Yes. I could take care of him. If I was only given the chance.

The next morning, I asked if he could eat a little salmon. He frowned. I murmured about gathering lighter fare— some fresh greens perhaps— but that would require leaving him alone.

“I promise I won’t die while you’re gone,” he murmured into my hair. Lifting my head in alarm, I saw he was grinning. It made me smile, too. How did he do that? Somehow, even as ill as he was, Peeta had a way of making me feel better.

Still afraid to wander too far, I went only as far as the opposite bank of the stream where I’d discovered a crop of young nettles. Careful to pinch the leaves so they wouldn’t sting me, I harvested a basketful. But it posed a problem— nettles require cooking, which meant starting a fire. I decided that the thick vapour from the hot springs would disguise the smoke, at least from a distance. I boiled the bunch along with some salmon in our bent box and roused Peeta with a kiss. To my surprise and joy, he was able to get it down.

My second surprise greeted me outside our little shelter the following morning when I came back with water— Peeta was sitting outside, waiting for me. He greeted me with a smile, his skin faded to a less worrisome shade of pink and his eyes clear and blue. I grabbed his head and brought my lips to his forehead as he chuckled. His fever had broken. I almost cried.

“You’re going to be just fine,” I choked out. “ _We’re_ going to be just fine.”

“You’d survive on your own, Katniss.”

The words hung on my lips for a second before spilling forth. “Without you, I wouldn’t want to survive.”

By the third afternoon since Peeta turned the corner in his recovery, I was humming with nervous energy, flitting about, trying to keep my hands busy. As we ate some salmon and roasted roots I’d gathered, he caught me studying him and gave me a quizzical smile.

“What’s got you in such high spirits?” he joked.

I shot him an incredulous look. “Have you forgotten how close you were to dying?” Pretending to inspect my quiver of arrows, I added, “I’ll need to hunt soon.”

I wondered how he’d react if he knew what was really going on in my mind.

“Why don’t you go to the pools?” I suggested. We’d taken turns bathing there the first day he’d improved. If he was puzzled by my suggestion he should go again so soon, he didn’t say anything. Soaking in the hot springs was too pleasant an experience to question. But to further cover my intentions, I reached into a basket, took out his shaving kit, and handed it to him.

He rubbed his chin.

“I think a celebration is in order,” I declared. “Don’t you agree?”

“All right,” Peeta answered slowly, studying my face with a curious expression, which forced me to turn away. He grabbed his shirt and trousers and left for the hot springs.

Left alone and waiting for the right moment, my inadequacies preyed on me, and I began to have doubts. Closing my eyes, I summoned the memory of Peeta that day I’d cried out in ecstasy, saying his name— recalling the way he’d looked at me, replaying his words— to reassure myself. Shivering with uncertainty and expectation, I rose to my feet.

Each step felt a little lighter, as if layers of captivity I hadn’t known I carried slipped one by one from my shoulders. And I understood then that my freedom hadn’t started when we fled in the canoe. I’d begun to release the burdens of my life beyond Nootka Sound the moment Peeta’s eyes had looked into mine, begging me to hold on, and I’d chosen to become his partner in survival, in life.

How ironic that my captive state had liberated me from many of the social constraints of my past. My modified clothing, learning to actually use a bow to hunt, the ease with which I’d adapted to the intimacy of living with Peeta… I’d thought they were simply the unexpected outcomes of adapting in order to stay alive.

Except for the dreams. I’d been slow to recognize that they were about more than being rescued or delivered from despair— they were about me choosing to let go of the life that had almost killed me. Ashamed for indulging my dream desires while awake, I hadn’t recognized it for what it was. But Peeta had.

Now I was taking the initiative, boldly, without apology. It was motivated by more than my old need to take care of the ones I cared about. This time I was also in pursuit of something purely for myself. The thrill, hovering in my chest, desperate to be released, told me so.

Peeta’s clothing lay on the rocks beside a small grassy patch, and I placed the blanket I’d brought beside them.

The air grew still, as if holding its breath in kinship with me, and the steam settled over the pools so that it took me a little while to spot him in the middle pool below the first waterfall.

Peeta seemed to materialize out of mist, the vapours thinning as I drew closer. He was sitting on a ledge, one bare leg bent with the foot on the edge of the rock, the other leg dangling in the water. He was gazing at the waves below, the sound of their rolling over the rocks of the lowest pool disguising my approach.

It was as if he were caught in the steam of his smithwork, enveloped as he dipped his molten creation into the water. The tendrils of vapour reached out, folding me into its embrace as well.

I wasn’t Eudora standing on the burning ship in Hemans’ poem, grasping freedom only in death. I’d burned up in the flames of the _Tribute,_ but emerged from the ashes. I was a phoenix, brought to life and set free, forged by Peeta’s hands.

Beads of water glistened on his skin. No trace of illness remained, as if he’d too been reborn from the ashes, a hero from an epic poem of his own.

He lifted his chin, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back under the waterfall. The water ran over his hair and down his body. I sucked in a breath, overcome by every tiny detail, appreciating the luxury of admiring how stunning he was. The droplets of water clinging to the body hair that was a shade darker than on his head. The sculpted profile of his face and the pensive line of his mouth from being lost in deep contemplation. The virile delineation of muscle even in his relaxed state. The boy I’d first seen on board the _Tribute_ had become the man of my dreams.

The first time I’d seen him naked, his pain had prompted my need to comfort him. This time it was something all-consuming and erotic, the way it’d been when I’d indulged my desire for him. Only now it wasn’t in my imagination. It was real.

He leaned forward, wiped the water from his eyes, and raked the damp hair from his face.  
Taking a breath, I climbed down to the edge of the pool, revealing my presence. Peeta’s head turned in surprise. I unbuttoned my dress and let it fall to the ground. I considered also removing my chemise and loosening my hair from its braid but, smiling to myself, decided to leave it for him.

The flash of confusion on his face as his eyes travelled over me caused the wave of insecurity to nearly drown me. Then understanding dawned on his face. The lines creasing his forehead smoothed out and his parted lips were curved with wonder and anticipation.

On the strength of the smoky desire darkening his blue eyes, I stepped free of the garment entangling my feet, and, with trembling legs, I stepped down onto a shallow rock in the pool. The water reached the bottom of my chemise, wicking it further up my legs, the steam draping me in a warm sheen.

Peeta pushed off the rock ledge and waded across the pool to me. All my doubts evaporated as he gazed up at me. In his adoring eyes, I became a new creature— beautiful, powerful, unquenchable as the sun.

My senses were set afire at the sight of his aroused body, setting me free. It was like my dream, the way he waited for me in the mist. But this time, I was the one who stretched out my hand. I held my breath, and, radiant and perfect before me, he took it in his own.

_Everyone deserved to be loved to the ends of their being by one person in their lifetime._

Even me.

~~~~~

 **Next Chapter:**  I feel a need to apologize for leaving you hanging with this ending. But when I reached this scene in the first draft, I knew that what happens next needed to be told from Peeta's POV. I hope you agree that Chapter 13 is worth the wait.

 **Notes:** My depiction of Measles contains a couple of anachronisms. While other diseases brought in by the early explorers and traders, such as Smallpox, had ravaged the Nuu-Chah-Nulth people prior to the 1830s, the first known outbreak of Rubeola on Vancouver Island didn't occur until the late 1840s-early 50s. In later decades (when the fur trade moved away from Nootka Sound), the relative isolation of the Mowachaht provided a degree of protection from the spread of the deadly illnesses, while other tribes with closer interaction with traders suffered more profoundly.

Katniss's conviction regarding having acquired immunity after contracting measles is also ahead of the medical knowledge of that time.

 _Hot Springs Cove_ is a real place. It lies within Maquinna Marine Provincial Park, located about 26 nautical miles (50 kms) north of Tofino in the Clayoquot Sound region. It is accessible only by boat or float plane.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Peeta**

The first two mornings after my fever broke, I awoke to Katniss’s smile. But when I opened my eyes on the third day, the other side of the bed was empty. The scent of woodsmoke reached my nose. It made me panic in my drowsy, disoriented state until I heard Katniss humming outside.

Igniting fires was my job— it was second nature as a blacksmith— but I guessed things had changed since I’d taken ill. I rolled onto my back, the tension leaving my body.

Still, it was unusual for Katniss to wake before me. I smiled, thinking of another kind of fire that roused me most mornings. It used to cause me some embarrassment, but today it put me in a sunny frame of mind.

Ever since I realized I’d beaten the measles, euphoria had energized me. Katniss fussed over me, worrying about my recovery, but I’d never felt more alive. She seemed more buoyant too, with all the little smiles she didn’t know she was giving. And now the humming.

Surviving death did that to a person. And freedom. We both had reasons to be happy. But there was another kind of energy pumping through my veins as well. Through the fog of my fever, traces of memory lingered. I relived the kisses and the touching, the undefinable but evocative quality infused in the way Katniss had doted on me. I stretched my arms up to cradle my head in my hands and closed my eyes.

The rustling of undergrowth caught my ear as Katniss left in the direction of the pools. Maybe she was going to do laundry. My heart began to beat a little faster. Or take a bath.

I replayed how she’d looked that Sunday touching herself. I hadn’t any idea before that day how it was for a woman. It made me want to learn more. To know what it would be like for my hand to be the one that made her feel that way…

My smile became a grin. This wasn’t helping me calm down, but the way I was feeling this morning, I didn’t care. Katniss would be gone awhile. My hand slipped down beneath the blanket. I wondered what she’d think if she knew what I was doing. Did she think about it— remember that day the way I did?

A few minutes later, sated and relaxed, I stripped off my shirt and, balling it up, set it aside. I lingered naked in bed, my morning reverie giving way to more rational musings.

How long had it been since we’d escaped? A week maybe. Katniss hadn’t seen anyone passing by our cove. Soon it would be the beginning of whaling season, which worried me. The measles may have impacted Yuquot, but there was no saying that people from villages to the south might not discover our presence. C’awa’quu’as had hosted some of those tribes for feasts, and they’d wanted to trade for us. Even more worrisome, would the tyee come hunting us, seeking retribution?

The next few months were the only time of the year we’d see a trading ship, too. When we could be rescued. But I didn’t want to think about that.

I wanted to think about the sound of my name on Katniss’s lips when she cried out in ecstasy. But, with my head clear, I had to consider the realities easily ignored in my dreams.

We’d both longed to be free of our captors, but our escape— and possible rescue— had implications. It meant Katniss was one step closer to returning to Gale and a life I was convinced nearly destroyed her spirit. I ran my hands over my face and thought about her pain. She saw only inadequacies, believed they made her unworthy, an albatross of misfortune even. I wished she could see herself through my eyes.

Did Gale see what I did? I squirmed, the ground feeling hard and uncomfortable at the thought of him. Given her nightmares of abandonment, her sense of failure, I doubted it. Katniss carried all the blame for the troubles and tragedies in her life. The pain in my back migrated to my chest. I recalled the immature fantasies of island girls put in my head by Darius and the others on our journey from England. How vapid they were when held against Katniss. I’d give anything to be loved by someone like her.

No. Not someone _like her_. There was no one else.

But her irrational fears of hurting me kept her bound to an unhappy past. Or maybe it was an excuse, rooted in some unfair sense of propriety because she couldn’t see past my age.

There was nothing more I could do. I’d made my case, used the best words of persuasion I knew, laid my heart bare. It didn’t help that part of her wanted me, too. It made it worse for the loss of something I could see but not touch. The pain in my chest became an ache.

It was her choice to make. My confidence that patience would favour me may have been misplaced. Time was running out for us. We might die here. Or maybe we’d be rescued. Either way, she’d be lost to me.

Feeling deflated, emotionally and physically, I threw aside the blanket and sat up. I tossed my shirt and trousers outside. Maybe I’d do some laundry today, get my mind off things. I searched through the baskets containing our things at the foot of the shelter. Underneath our wool coats I located my cedar mantle, put it on, and crawled out from under the canoe. Katniss had left some roots roasting in the fire for our breakfast while she was gone. I hoped she would be back soon.

My wish was granted when she emerged from the bushes, her freshly cleaned dress over her arm. I could have sworn her eyes lit up a little when she saw me. And I decided it was wrong to add my selfish longings to her burdens of regret. Especially when she seemed happy.

“I’m starving,” I said with a forced grin, flipping the roots from the coals onto the wooden platter we shared.

Katniss smiled over her shoulder as she hung her dress to dry on the line she’d strung between trees. “So am I.” There was a hint of a smirk on her face.

As the rest of the morning passed, her contagiously cheerful demeanour broke through my glum mood. When she rose to fetch water, I offered to come along and help dig up more roots.

By lunchtime I couldn’t help tease her. “What’s got you in such high spirits?”

Making a face at me, she went on about how I’d almost died, but I was more distracted by a blush of rosiness colouring her cheeks. She turned away to fiddle with the arrows in her quiver, mumbling about hunting. Hunting made her happy, which made me happy, but her unusual behaviour today piqued my curiosity.

Katniss interrupted my ruminations, saying how we should celebrate. Shoving my shaving kit into my hands, she suggested— with a firmness that left no room for debate— that perhaps I might like to go to the hot springs. It sounded like a good idea. Those pools were amazing. Taking the hint, I mentioned I had laundry to do, gathered up my things, and, whistling the tune she’d been humming that morning, I left her to whatever celebratory preparations she had in mind.

After draping my damp shirt and trousers over some rocks to dry and making a final inspection of my face in the small looking glass, I closed the shaving kit and left it beside my mantle near the middle pool.

The upper one, closest to where the hot springs emerged from the ground, was almost scalding. It was a sensation that conjured up bad memories, so I avoided that one. The lower pools were wider and deeper, and at quick glance appeared most appealing, but the constant infiltration of cold ocean water made them tepid. They could be treacherous, too, when a rogue wave broke over the top with the power to slam a body against the rocks.

Despite the intimidating, sharp-edged, rocky walls that lined it, the middle pool was my favourite. The hot water from the upper pool fell in a gentle shower onto a smooth rock ledge. The water cooled a bit when it reached the pool, leaving it an ideal temperature.

I’d figured out the best way to approach this pool, down a barely discernable path through the rocks that guarded it. A couple stone steps ushered me into the pool with the perfect depth and width for me to float, safely cradled, as if it had been created with me in mind.

I liked starting under the waterfall though, so I carefully picked my way across the pool’s uneven bottom and climbed onto the ledge. The water fell from a height of about twelve feet, its cascading heat like dozens of fingers kneading the knots from my body. Curling tendrils of steam caressed my skin.

I hoped it might distract me from my unrequited desires, but it only intensified my thoughts of Katniss. The falling water became her hands, the steam her unbound hair whispering around me…

Frustrated with myself, I stepped clear of the shower. Sitting on the ledge, I gazed over the pools and beyond.

_Without you, I wouldn’t want to survive._

What did she mean? Did she think that if I died it was another failure she’d have to bear? It was so easy to tempt myself into believing it was more than that, but thinking that way only made my heart hurt.

I wondered how long we had. If we could lay low until September, the inhabitants of native villages would move inland. We’d have all winter then, left alone together. I wondered if, with the mercy of enough time, there was a way to convince Katniss of how incredible she was. Maybe she’d stop blaming herself, regardless of what happened to us.

Worrying about a whaling party recapturing us was justifiable. But I felt guilty hoping the summer passed without any ships discovering us either. Which led to wishing we were never rescued. Because then, time might be on my side.

I leaned back to catch the stream of water behind me. If the water couldn’t wash away my guilty thoughts, maybe I could redirect them somehow.

Pondering the months ahead got me thinking about our shelter. It was barely adequate now, though I didn’t mind the close quarters. But come winter, if we lasted that long, we’d need something better, more substantial.

I could build Katniss a home. I liked the sound of that. Plus, a project might be just the thing to keep me from dwelling too much on things I couldn’t change.

Leaning forward, I wiped the water from my eyes and slicked back my hair.

And I saw Katniss standing at the entrance to the pool, an ethereal vision engulfed in vapour.

I blinked, believing she must be a figment of my endless longing. I froze, watching her watching me. When her dress dropped to her feet, a faint whisper of breeze moulded her chemise around her body. The edges of the world contracted until there was only the two of us and the pool between us. My brain became as hazy as the air surrounding me.

What was she was doing?

Katniss entered the pool up to her knees. Her skin was dewy from the steam. I licked my lips, craving to know how it would taste. It was making me hard, too, but I felt no inclination to hide. Because, when the steam cleared enough for me to see her eyes, I saw what they were telling me.

And _I knew_.

My heart racing, I pushed off the ledge and waded across the pool. When her hand touched mine, it was trembling a little, awakening a thrill deep in my marrow. Somewhere between taking her hand and leading her to the base of the waterfall, I stopped worrying about tomorrow, or the months ahead, or rescue, or even death.

Katniss gasped in surprise when I lifted her with one hand out of the water to join me on top of the ledge. Fueled by my passion, she was as light as a feather. Her thin chemise had become translucent from the spray of the waterfall—a slow reveal of what lay hidden beneath.

My breathing became irregular, my eyes fixed on the emerging dark peaks of her breasts and the darker triangle at the juncture of her thighs.

How many times and ways had this moment played out in my dreams? But a million desires clamoured to be met at once, and I couldn’t indulge even one of them. I lost the ability to move, my hands immobile at my sides, my feet locked into the stone. All I could do was wait, begging with my eyes for her to tell me what to do.

She took my hands and placed them on her hips.

“Take it off, Peeta,” she whispered, her command unleashing me from my paralysis.

An urge flowed down my arms to rip the chemise off her, but a stronger need— to feel every curve and valley, to map her body like an explorer learning a new land— won out.

She stretched her arms above her head so I could slide the damp fabric up and pull it free. I tossed the garment onto the rocks near where my own clothing lay. I stood gaping, my eyes darting all over her. My mouth went dry. The vision of her naked made my body start to throb.

For a fraction of a second, she wavered, her shoulders curling inward as if she held the inconceivable notion that she was anything less than perfect, and my hands reached out to reassure her.

Everything became a blur of sight and touch. Katniss’s body moving against mine. Her hair slipping through my fingers when I freed it from its braid. Her hand leaving a tingling trail down my chest. Another hand sliding around the nape of my neck, tugging my head down as she rose on tiptoes to meet me.

The softest brush of lips over mine, the inquisitive swipe of the tip of her tongue. I sighed through parted lips and, when she sucked the bottom one between hers, instinctive impulses took over. My kiss was hard and my hands wild, wanting to touch her everywhere. I pressed her against the rock wall, my body grinding against hers, aching for relief. I had no more control than the waves breaking over the rocks.

My hands gripped her bottom, pulling her hips even tighter against me. Her hand slipped in between us, wrapping around me, sliding over my length, making me groan. In all the times I’d touched myself, nothing could compare to this. I tried to slow down, but it was too late.

I whimpered, and Katniss brought her lips to my ear. “Shh. It’s all right,” she whispered as her hand continued to stroke me.

I was falling, like the water above, spilling over the edge.

“I’ve got you,” she said, so I let go with a cry.

My legs became weak, and my head dropped to Katniss’s shoulder as I slumped into her arms. She whispered soothing things to me, her fingers running through my hair.

As strength and clarity returned, one amazing thought broke through my bewilderment, over and over:

_This is real. This is real…_

Panting for breath, still reeling from what happened, I lifted my head. Her smoky eyes met my blissfully dazed ones before migrating down to my lips. Her eyelashes fanned down, and she leaned in. My faculties now under more control, I kissed her the way I had in my dreams— slowly, reverently, tasting her welcoming mouth. I kissed down the side of her neck as my fingers combed through the long waves of hair splaying over her back as the water trickled over us. I lost all sense of time and place— my only awareness the sensation of her body moulding to mine.

My lips chased after hers as her back arched away from me. When I opened my eyes, she grabbed my hand.

“Come on,” she said breathlessly, jumping down from the ledge, tugging me along behind her. She owned my heart and body. If she’d told me to impale myself on the jagged rocks I’d’ve willingly complied at that point.

We scrambled out of the water and up the rock bank. There was a blanket laid out on a grassy patch near my clothes. Flinging her arms around my neck, her mouth on mine, Katniss stepped back onto it, taking me with her. We fell to our knees, then tumbled down, a tangle of arms and legs and frenzied kisses, my body hovering over hers. And then we paused, chests heaving, and looked at each other.

Her eyes were wide and dark with only a thin ring of grey, her lips swollen and red, making me think of ripe fruit I wanted to devour. Leaning most my weight on my forearm beside her head, I used my free hand to smooth back the strands of damp hair clinging to her face. And I kissed her again, relishing the softness of her mouth, drawing one of her lips between mine, the way she’d done to me, as if it were a plump berry. She emitted a sigh as my teeth gently scraped over its surface before releasing it with a final sweep with the tip of my tongue.

She caressed the side of my face, and I leaned into it, closing my eyes, my fingers in her hair.

“Touch me, Peeta,” she begged in a husky voice. Stretching out her limbs, she reclined fully on her back, her beguiling eyes never leaving me.

I swallowed as my gaze journeyed down her body. I was better able to appreciate what I’d been too overwhelmed to fully take in before— her body flushed from the hot springs and desire, scattered constellations of dark freckles in places previously hidden. Every inch a new discovery.

Starting under her rib cage, my tentative hand ghosted up her side, grazing the swell of her breast. When the back of my fingers brushed across the velvety texture of her nipple, it stiffened, and she arched her back a little. When my palm cupped her, the sound that came from her throat sounded like a purr.

It sent a thrill racing through me like a lightning storm, igniting an intoxicating hunger. I’d memorized the way she’d touched herself, replayed the image of her bliss so many times, it was intuitive for me. I duplicated how she’d teased and fondled her breasts.

But imagining and experiencing weren’t the same thing. The small, tantalizing moans and undulations Katniss gave to direct me triggered a latent knowledge that transcended memory. My hands were no longer enough, and I brought my mouth to her other breast. The second the tip of my tongue flicked across her hardened peak, Katniss’s hands flew up, one gripping my arm, the other digging into the hair at the back of my head. I was scared I’d done something wrong, but her fingers began to flex and knead, like a contented housecat, and I relaxed. My hands and mouth resumed lavishing their attentions on her.

As my hand drifted down her belly, I could feel gooseflesh rising on her skin. Though it hadn’t been very long, it caused a stirring in my groin, and I felt myself growing hard again. I closed my eyes and summoned the memory of her hand stroking herself and mimicked her motions. She began to move her hips in concert with my fingers, the intensity rippling from her liquid core, through my hand, and up my arm all the way to my heart. Our rhythm increased, and every muscle in my body tensed, when she suddenly squirmed under me.

Her hand slipped down between us and pushed my fingers away. I lifted my head in confusion. She encircled my body with her legs, drawing my hips between her thighs, and said, “I want to feel it with you inside me.”

I faltered under the gravity of her words. She searched my eyes when I remained motionless, fighting for breath. Worry lines creased her brow.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured, laying her hand on my cheek.

“It’s just… I’ve never…” I couldn’t form the words.

A gentle smile emerged on her face. “I know,” she whispered and lifted her head to give me a tender kiss.

Her hands smoothed down my back, and then one hand took hold of my erection and guided it between her folds.

I slipped into her, effortlessly, like sliding into silk, like being engulfed in the warm waters of my favourite pool, only it was so much more than that. My wildest imaginations couldn’t prepare me for how it felt, and I tried to move slowly to savour each sensation, to let myself drown in the ecstasy.

But soon my thrusts became erratic as I raced too quickly to the precipice. I clenched my eyes shut, my groan came out as a desperate whimper. I felt her legs tighten their grip around my hips and her hand press against my shoulder. In a fluid motion, I was on my back, and Katniss was straddling me. I sucked in a breath and blinked up at her. Her eyes were hooded and her hands splayed over my chest. She began to move, slowing to a steadier pace, and my head fell back as I relinquished control.

As Katniss’s undulations became faster, I gripped her hips, my own thrusts rising and falling with the rhythm she set. I could feel my excitement building along with her, my body rushing, relentless, like the hot springs erupting from deep inside the molten earth, so that I could no longer contain it.

And just when I didn’t think I could last another second, she threw her head back and cried out. I shuddered, overcome by the sensation of her walls pulsing around me, and came a second after her.

As the world regained solidity, I looked up. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted in a blissful smile, both of us revelling in the euphoria of our release. The tension in her shoulders and arms gave way, and she collapsed onto my chest. I nuzzled a dark lock of hair away with my nose so I could kiss the soft skin below her ear. She shivered and snuggled close, so I reached to the side and pulled the edge of the blanket over us, wrapping it along with my arms around her. I stared up at the blue sky with its streaming, diaphanous clouds and grinned so hard my face hurt.

We lay there long enough for our hearts to calm. Katniss raised her head from my chest and kissed the tip of my nose. It made my heart skip a beat.

“Let’s go soak in the springs, warm up before we go back.”

Anything she wanted was fine by me.

We found the deepest part of the middle pool and crouched down so the water reached our chests. Katniss rested her hands on my shoulders, while mine hugged the curves of her waist. She turned to gaze at the waves crashing over the rim of the lowest pool, turning it into a churning cauldron before flowing back out to sea.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, awed by the power of it.

“Yes,” she whispered after a pause, small lines between her eyes. “But I still hate it. It terrifies me.” Her arms tightened around my neck. “All my nightmares… I drown in water like that.”

I circled my arms around her body and pulled her flush to my chest. She kissed me, and then, wrapping her legs around my waist, she leaned away as my hands slid down her back. Her face grew tranquil as she floated on the surface. She closed her eyes, relaxed and trusting, as I supported her. Her hair fanned out in the water, the droplets on her skin glistening in the sunlight.

“You see? Nothing to fear,” I soothed.

Her eyelashes fluttered open. “I’m not afraid if we’re together.”

We stayed there for almost an hour— until our skin wrinkled and our bodies felt boneless from the warm water. Katniss gathered all our clothing and my shaving kit in her arms, and I threw the blanket around our bodies. Giggling, we wound our way through the trees to our camp. Once dressed in our cedar clothing, we dived into a dinner from our dwindling provisions. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much of an appetite.

“Slow down. You’ll make yourself ill,” Katniss laughed.

“Uh uh,” I mumbled around a mouthful. “I’m never getting sick again.”

“I’ll hunt tomorrow,” she said with a grin. I grinned back.

A couple hours later, we crawled into our narrow shelter under the canoe as a passing shower began to sprinkle down. Katniss lay her head over my heart, swirling her fingers in the hair on my chest. I was so warm and content I couldn’t envision anything with enough power to shatter the peaceful bubble surrounding us.

Katniss’s breathing began to level out, and I thought she was asleep when she murmured, “I love the sound of your heart. It’s a good heart.”

I hugged her a little closer. I didn’t know if it came from a place of confidence or vulnerability, but I had to ask, “I’m your real husband?”

“Yes... In this place...” she whispered. “You are everything I could want. You’re all I need.”

I smiled and pulled her close.

_Then I hope we can stay and live in this place forever._

 ~~~~~

Katniss yawned and stretched as the morning light peeked through the tiny gaps in our shelter walls. I’d been watching her sleep, eager for the moment she opened her eyes. She blinked a couple times and looked at me. I was grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” she asked drowsily.

I was ready to burst into flame. “Just waiting for you to wake up.”

She smiled. “Come here,” she purred, welcoming me into her arms, into the exquisite beauty of her body.

I loved waking up with Katniss. It was the most glorious thing I’d ever experienced.

 ~~~~~

It was a drizzly day, so, after a small breakfast, we sat side by side under the canoe, waiting for the shower to pass. Katniss was laying out all our remaining food on a woven mat in front of her, while I used a stick to sketch an idea I was working on in the dirt.

“As soon as the rain stops, I’m going hunting,” she announced. We’d brought hooks and line, but, without the canoe at our disposal, fishing wasn’t an option. I’d seen men spear-fishing from the rocks, but I hadn’t had any success with it myself.

She leaned over to see what I was doing. “What’re you drawing?”

“We need a better shelter, Katniss.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I want to take the canoe to the village we attacked.” She looked at me as if I were mad. “It isn’t far, just north to the next inlet,” I explained. “We’d only need to be out on open water for maybe an hour at most to reach it.”

“You want to relocate there?” Her eyes grew wide with alarm, and from the way her back stiffened, I could tell she was upset.

I rushed to reassure her. “No. Not that. I want to bring back planks from the longhouses and rebuild something sturdy here.”

She pursed her lips and turned her face to the cove. A second later she shook her head. “Absolutely not!”

I gaped in frustration. “You haven’t even let me fully explain my plan.” And besides, this was as much my decision as hers.

“I don’t have to hear it to know it’s a bad idea. We’re supposed to be trying to not get caught in the open.”

“Katniss—” I insisted, but she wouldn’t look at me.

When I tried to touch her arm, she brushed me away and reached for her quiver instead. Gripping the bow in her other hand, she scrambled out from under the canoe. “I’m going hunting. We’re almost out of food.”

“It’s still raining.” But she was already disappearing into the trees, and my words dissolved into the drizzle.

I gave an exasperated huff and tossed my stick into the fire pit. Blood rushed to my face, and I gritted my teeth. An angry swipe of my foot across the dirt eradicated my drawing. I hugged my knees, fuming.

Why was she being so unreasonable? After a couple minutes, the heat in my face subsided and sadness crept in, taking its place. I stared at nothing but a world of grey, feeling as dreary as the rain and mist. How could it be that things had been so perfect only a couple hours ago? And now I’d gone and ruined it, trying to do what was best for us. Yes, it was a risk, but we had limited supplies and needed to make the best of what was available.

I shivered, though it wasn’t cold. Maybe that was all I was for Katniss— the best that was available. On top of that, there was a quality to her rebuke that felt… disturbingly parental. I shook the thought away.

Closing my eyes, I conjured up happy images of the past day, but they didn’t cheer me, knowing Katniss was upset. I frowned. And remembered how she’d lashed out in anger at that woman over those stolen blackberries. She could be a tenacious survivor when pushed, but I’d grown to know her well enough to realize there was a fine line between surliness and fear with her.

Regardless, there was still the problem of our shelter to contend with. I sucked in a deep breath and got to my feet. A patch of blue sky opened and warm rays of sunlight bathed my face as the last of the rain dripped from the lacy evergreen boughs. I decided to go collect firewood. We were running low, and I needed to burn off the anxiety sitting in the pit of my stomach from our argument.

When I came back from what turned out to be as much a calming walk as a wood-gathering exercise, Katniss was waiting, sitting on the fallen log we used for a bench beside the cold fire pit.

“That didn’t take long,” I said, dropping an armload of kindling-sized branches beside the canoe.

She turned and held up the duck she was plucking.

“I’m sorry—” We both said it at the same time. I smiled, and she blushed a little.

I sat down beside her. “Maybe it is too dangerous,” I said after a pause. “We’ll figure something else out.”

“Like what?” she replied, looking at me. “It’s a good idea, Peeta. Trying to build something from nothing is much harder.” She gave me a smile, which flooded me with warmth, but then her eyes got little, worry lines between them.

“We could wait until the fall,” I offered as a compromise. “Go after we’re sure everyone has moved to their inland villages for the winter.”

She chewed her lip, considering the idea, but then shook her head. “If we wait until then, the ocean will be more treacherous. If we go, we should go now. Maybe they won’t have started whaling yet.”

“Are you sure? We don’t have to if you’re worried about it.” But my pulse was speeding up at the prospect of the undertaking.

She threaded her fingers with mine. “It’s not only running into warriors that concerns me.” I looked at her with curiosity. “How would it be for you? Going back there again after what you went through.”

My eyes dropped to the ground. In all my planning, I hadn’t let myself consider that. Katniss had seen my breakdown on the beach. I’d experienced a few unsettling moments since then, some nightmares flashing back to it. But, for the most part, I’d been able to keep it under control.

I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be fine. _I’m not afraid if we’re together.”_ The corner of her mouth ticked up at my quoting her exact words from the previous day, but she remained quiet. “It’ll be good to have the use of the canoe again, for fishing inside the cove,” I added. “We could be here a long time. Winter on the coast won’t be easy for us.”

She sighed, relenting. “We deserve a decent shelter.”

Katniss deserved so much more than that.

I smiled, happy to have our disagreement behind us. She didn’t say anything about the _long time_ part, but she kissed my cheek. “All right. We’ll build a home. Show me what you had in mind.”

I retrieved my stick and sketched out my plan in the damp earth. We calculated the amount of board feet we’d need to build a small house.

“Are you sure there’ll even be usable planks? I thought they burned down the village.”

“They set the buildings on fire. But I’m sure there’ll be something left that’s salvageable.” There was a glint in her eye when she questioned if I was up to the task, so I said, “I’ve helped take down and rebuild a longhouse twice now, so I’d like to think I’ve learned a few things. It’ll take several trips to get what we need, given the size of our canoe. And we’ll still have to drag it back up here every night until I’ve finished the new shelter. It could take awhile.”

“What if people are still there? You said some escaped.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to not think about the slain bodies waiting in the village. “There won’t be. Anyone who survived would know better than to come back.”

“Because C’awa’quu’as could return.”

I nodded. If the tyee had attacked to stake a claim on their land and resources, it was likely his men would show up at some point. But the terrible toll of the measles outbreak improved our odds we could raid the village undetected.

“We’ll be careful, watch for signs of canoes as we approach,” I said. “We’ll only stay as long as we absolutely have to.”

“You’ve got it all figured out,” she teased, which made me beam with pride. “Well, we’d better get on it soon,” she said, growing more serious.

“First thing tomorrow,” I answered. I put my arm around her shoulders when I saw the confidence slip a little from her face. “We’ll be fine. I promise.”

“I hope so,” she whispered. I waited for her to add that I couldn’t make that promise, but she didn’t this time. It made me braver somehow.

 ~~~~~

We left early the next day, intending to make two round trips. It was another misty day, which was a mixed blessing. If anyone was around, they wouldn’t see us, but we wouldn’t see them either. So we kept our ears tuned for the telltale chanting that paddlers used to coordinate their strokes.

As we journeyed north, I pondered how it was likely only out at sea that we’d ever be spotted by a passing ship in this remote spot. When I mentioned it to Katniss, she said it wasn’t worth worrying about.

We arrived to an empty village. It was an eerie, nightmarish scene, full of ash and the blackened skeletons of longhouses, a place devoid of colour in a sea of lush evergreen. I ordered my feet to approach one of the less damaged buildings, anxious to get what we could carry and get out of there, when I saw a half-burned, half-decayed body inside the entranceway. It was hard to keep breathing. It hadn’t been two months, and the memories were too fresh.

Maybe Katniss had been right, and this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

When her hand came to rest on my back, I flinched in alarm. She wrapped her arms around me. After a few moments to get myself together, I patted her arm and gave her a small smile.

“Let’s get this done,” I said.

We collected all the usable planks we could find that were short enough to fit in our canoe and piled them on the beach. Many of them were blackened on the surface, but I could scrape them clean. We loaded as many as we could safely transport. I was relieved when we pushed off from shore and headed back to our cove. The second trip was a little easier for me, but we were tired, and our arms ached by the time we went to bed that night.

We repeated the journey the following two days. We both grew more hardened to the sight of destruction and death with each trip. Katniss scrounged the charred ruins for anything of value, while I loaded planks into the canoe. She came back with a couple of unburned blankets.

“To make a mattress for our new bed,” she said, which made me grin.

On the final trip, just as I was about to call for her so we could leave, she emerged from the farthest longhouse holding a gallon-sized copper kettle triumphantly over her head. It was a rare, hidden treasure that had been missed by our warriors. We added it to yards of salvaged cedar rope. Without nails, the Mowachaht relied on it to secure the wall boards, but I doubted we had enough. Katniss said not to worry. She knew how to make more if needed.

I spent the next week assembling our new home, cross-bracing the corner posts because it was too rocky to properly dig them into the ground. I hoped it was strong enough to withstand the winter storms. We left open an entrance on the side facing the cove for fresh air and light— we agreed the remaining planks were better used for a raised sleeping platform. When the weather worsened in the fall, we could always weave limbs and boughs to fill in the doorway, Katniss said, like we’d done with our little cave last winter.

With the limited tools we had, I was pretty proud of our accomplishment. But seeing how pleased it made Katniss as she moved our things inside, including our new mattress to cushion our bed, made me happiest of all.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:**  As Katniss marks another birthday, she and Peeta adapt to a life in hiding and with each other.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Katniss**

A chill ran up my spine even though the midday sun bathed me in warmth. I stared at the stepping stones that served as a bridge across the little creek, realizing that I’d come all the way from the estuary at the top of the cove with hardly any awareness of how I’d reached this spot.

A hummingbird hovered above a berry bush in bloom, looking at me with shiny, black eyes. Not the copper-coloured male with his brilliant, fiery throat, glowing like coals, but the stealthier-hued, green-backed female. She gave a few quick, sharp chirps— judging me as I deserved— before darting off into the trees in search of more sweet nectar to plunder.

I’d made the journey enough times for the route to be familiar, and there hadn’t been any sign of other people in the area, but that didn’t excuse my lack of vigilance. I chided myself on my carelessness and leapt to the first stone.

All I had to show for my efforts was a small basketful of roots. It hadn’t been a successful day hunting— many of the migrating birds that were plentiful before had either moved on or grown wary of my presence. Or perhaps they were guarding nests. A twinge of wistfulness flowed through me, and I miscalculated my footing. Teetering on the final stepping stone, I managed not to drop my bow, but the foraging basket fell from under my arm.

I jumped down into the cold water and grabbed the basket before the current could carry it away. And nearly dumped the arrows in my quiver in the ungraceful manoeuvre. I waded to dry land, uttering a growl of frustration.

But, on such a beautiful day— we’d awoken to clear skies and the warmest day of the year so far— it was impossible for my spirits to be dampened. Rays of sunlight penetrated the evergreen canopy, each beam turning ferns a brilliant green and making the smooth, waxy leaves of yama plants shimmer with reflected light. My feet sunk into a thick patch of illuminated moss, and my stumble in the creek, along with my bad luck at hunting, was forgotten. A few more steps and I’d be home.

I dropped my things outside our miniature longhouse, but Peeta wasn’t around. A few steps towards the water’s edge and I realized the canoe was gone too. I made my way down the slope and stood on the pebbled beach, shielding my eyes from the sunlight dancing over the waves. When he saw me, Peeta waved the paddle and returned to shore.

I waded into the water as he hopped out on the other side, and we hauled the canoe onto the beach.

“Oh, Peeta!” I gasped. Three salmon, each weighing well over ten pounds by my estimation, lay in the bottom of the canoe. “You got those all in the cove?” We’d agreed that it was safest to stay clear of the open ocean.

He beamed. “Um hmm. They’re hungry. It took less than an hour, could’ve caught more. I’ll go out again tomorrow.” There was enough to feed us for days.

“That’s good, since I didn’t get anything other than some roots.”

“Next time,” he said with a smile.

“The first salmonberries will be ready soon— the bushes are laden with them. And I saw deer droppings near the estuary. I’m thinking of exploring further inland. Maybe I can get one.”

“Let me come with you so I can help carry it back.”

His confidence in my success was endearing. He didn’t say it, but there was another reason behind his request. I knew how he felt. Neither of us were comfortable going far or for long without the other close by.

We’d rambled together all over the area surrounding our camp, scouting, needing to ensure we were alone. In the process, we’d discovered we were on a peninsula when we reached the coast on the opposite side. A wide inlet stretched inland far beyond view. Unlike the rocky shores of our cove, this side had small pockets of sandy beach that yielded a decent supply of clams. But it was getting well into spring, and the Mowachaht’s seasonal prohibition on harvesting shellfish made me refrain from further gathering.

While I cleaned and filleted the salmon, Peeta excused himself to collect firewood. I hung the fish on the drying rack we’d constructed.

We had the canoe at our disposal and a proper roof over our heads. We had plenty of salmon. There were more berries than the two of us could eat fresh, so I’d be able to dry some of them, too. The abundance for our exclusive consumption, coupled with being the only people in the area, was more than I could hope for in our exile.

I heard Peeta returning from the woods behind me.

Turning to him, I said, “Why don’t you get the fire started—” I stopped when I saw the grin on his face. His hands were behind his back. I smirked. “What’re you hiding?”

His eyes flashed in the sunlight, daring me to come find out. I tried to reach around his back, but he teased me by swiveling away from my attempts to discover what he was concealing.

I gave an impatient huff, and the glint in his eye softened into the gentler adoration that always set loose a fluttering in my belly.

“Happy Birthday.” He held out a handful of pink bleeding hearts.

I blushed, taking the offered bouquet in my hands. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

He shrugged. “A guess. The last full moon means it must be May. And the day is too beautiful for it to not be.”

My birthday. The rush of warmth from Peeta’s words was tempered by a cold wave of reality. I was thirty-two. I looked into Peeta’s face, so full of devotion and happiness for presenting me with this token of his love, and saw the handsome, eighteen-year-old young man.

The smile vanished from his face. “What’s wrong?”

I kissed his cheek. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

I couldn’t stand hearing the worry in his voice, but it was difficult to explain it to him when he was being so sweet. I repressed a sigh and sat down on the log. Peeta sat beside me.

“You’re too good to me,” I said, trying to pacify his concern with a smile.

His eyes narrowed, studying me. “Don’t say that. Not when, if anything, I’m the lucky one.” He chewed on his lip. “Does this have anything to do with what’s happening between us?”

What? “No. That’s not it.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s the opposite really.” He looked genuinely confused. I took his hand, letting my fingers slip between his. I loved his hands. I loved the way the broad span of them engulfed my own. They were strong from his labours, and I was intimately aware of their gentler powers, too.

I took a breath and searched for the words. “The day _you_ turn thirty-two, I’ll be forty-five years old.”

A little smirk appeared on his face. “And when I turn forty-five, you’ll be fifty-eight. I’m familiar with mathematics, too.”

His playful teasing was beyond frustrating. “Exactly right! Don’t you see?”

His smirk was now a lopsided smile. Puzzled by what I’d said that he found amusing, I frowned. “I’ll be an old woman, and you’ll still be in your prime.” His smile turned into an exuberant grin, making me exasperated. “What?” I demanded.

“You were talking about growing old.” When I quirked my eyebrows, he added, “With me.”

My cheeks grew hot, realizing he was right. “That’s all you heard?”

“It’s the only part that mattered to me.”

I sighed. “It must cross your mind sometimes.” How could he not think about it?

He searched my eyes and saw something— a hesitation or doubt— that made him turn away. His jovial tone became pensive. “I know that if the _Tribute_ hadn’t been attacked, we’d have never ended up together… Even if you hadn’t been married to someone else.”

Small shards cut into my heart. Because he was right. Regardless of my marriage to Gale, when we’d met, Peeta had been a seventeen-year-old boy, albeit a very sweet and handsome one, but a boy nonetheless.

“If we ever make it out of this place and back to civilization, whomever you chose will be the luckiest girl on earth.” My words didn’t have the effect I’d hoped.

He frowned. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t even care if we never get rescued if it means we can stay together.”

A surge of emotion pushed up my throat at the raw honesty of his admission, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t ignore the obvious, hard truth. “If we are rescued, I’m the one who’ll have the harder time saying goodbye. But I will. Not because I’m bound by my obligations to Gale. But because you’ll realize how much more you can have with someone else.”

He gawked at me. “What are you talking about?” The lines crossing his forehead vanished as understanding dawned in his eyes. “Is this about children?” His jaw tensed. “You think I’d cast you aside… like Gale?”

I hadn’t discussed the details of Gale’s reaction to my barren state with Peeta, only my own sense of failure. Given my nightmares of abandonment, maybe it wasn’t such a hard conclusion to jump to. But it wasn’t entirely true. By the time we’d parted, I was as much to blame for pushing him away.

“Gale didn’t cast me aside. Though I’ll admit my inability to have children came between us. How could it not? How can you think it wouldn’t between us eventually?”

His expression was passionate in its resolution. “If that’s what you think, then you don’t know me as well as you should after all this time. None of that matters to me.”

“You should care about it.” I tried to inject gentle reason into my voice despite the torment in my chest. “And you must have thought about having a family of your own.”

His chest expanded as he sucked in a deep breath. He slowly released it as he pondered his response. I wasn’t aware I was holding my breath until he spoke.

“When I left England I was still sixteen. The only things on my mind were seeing the world and maybe finding a girl someday. It feels like another lifetime.”

He faced me, his eyes bright and the muscles in his face tense. For some reason I couldn’t drag my gaze from the thin scar above his eye. I bit my lip, hanging on his next words.

“Fate brought us here, Katniss. I can’t change that. Or how I feel. I love you. If that means it’s just you and me, then it’s enough. I told you this already, that Sunday by the lake. Don’t you remember?”

Closing my eyes, I brought my fingers to my lips to hide the emotions bubbling to the surface. Yes, I remembered what he’d said about the salmon and the river— how within the eternal pull of instinct he saw the romantic bond of unconditional love. But that kind of poetic idealism was the privilege of youth.

I wondered how long it would take for me to see the inevitable look of regret in his eyes. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.

Summoning every ounce of conviction, I answered, “I hope we’re rescued so that you’ll have a real choice. Because you might feel differently one day.” My voice cracked at the end, betraying my attempt to be sensible. Peeta said nothing. I stared at the flowers in my hand. Bleeding hearts. A perfect choice.

I rose from the log and went inside our house. I poured a little water from the kettle into the bent box and placed the flower stems inside. Their nodding blooms cascaded over the rim, resembling falling tears. Their open hearts condemning me for how I’d hurt Peeta, when all he’d wanted to do was remember my birthday.

We didn’t talk much for the rest of the day, both of us absorbed in our thoughts and chores. We ate a meal of fresh salmon and roasted roots— neither of us with much of an appetite. Too dispirited to last until sunset, we retired for the night.

Peeta was reserved as we lay side by side. I tried to pretend I didn’t miss the usual overtures of love he initiated when we went to bed. The loss of it left me wishing I hadn’t been so honest.

I considered leaning over and giving him a goodnight kiss, wondering if I should, when he rolled to face me. His fingers grazed my cheek, and I melted into the touch of his hand.

He slipped an arm under my head and pulled me close. Kissing my temple, he whispered against my skin, “It could never happen, that I’d change how I feel.”

It still didn’t change the fact that today, and for the next four and half months, I’d be fourteen years older than him. “A day will come when you’ll look at me, and I won’t look the same.”

His thumb stroked the side of my face. “The first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. That’s another thing that will stay the same. One day I’ll make you understand, make you see what I see. And then you’ll believe me.”

Was there enough time for that to be possible? Would we be given that time? A selfish part of me hoped so. That the world would leave us alone. That I’d be able to keep him.

For the first time since that day at the hot springs, it was me who initiated, reaching out to make love.

 ~~~~~

My wish was granted over the next few critical months. No whaling or hunting parties invaded our private sanctuary, jeopardizing our freedom. We didn’t see any ships either. But we stayed inside the cove, so, even if one had passed, it would’ve been easy to miss. It was safer that way— or so we kept telling ourselves.

My luck with hunting returned. Peeta and I ventured about a mile inland from the top of the cove, and I brought down a black-tailed deer.

The summer was idyllic— we did as we pleased as free people. We wanted for little in this rich land. As the days lengthened, we kept busy— hunting, fishing, and gathering. When the days reversed their course, we enjoyed the hot springs, even in the balmy, sunny weather. The weight of wariness ebbed, and we both grew more comfortable in our security. We lived as husband and wife in the truest way I’d ever experienced, and I allowed myself to pretend that there was no life outside the cove.

By the end of August, our confidence that we’d soon enter the safe period infused us with energy. We had the winter to prepare for, and the likely inclement weather to face, but we’d been diligent in provisioning ourselves. Our pile of firewood grew. Peeta fussed over our house, experimenting with mosses to fill in the gaps between the planks, and I made a panel from woven evergreens to fit the doorway. We hadn’t bothered with it all summer— Peeta said he preferred it that way— open to the night air— and, with no one else to intrude on our privacy, I didn’t mind either. But with future winter storms on the horizon, we needed to be ready.

“I wonder if we’ll see any spawning salmon in our cove?” Peeta asked one morning as he organized his fishing gear, getting ready to head out in the canoe.

The creeks that drained into the cove, including the one that fed the estuary, were small compared to what we’d had in the Mowachaht’s winter village, Tashees. “I don’t know. We probably shouldn’t count on it.”

“We could explore further inland or along the coast,” Peeta mused but quickly dismissed his own suggestion. “After what happened to the village we attacked, it’s likely a bad idea.”

I agreed. Territorial control over the productive salmon rivers was a serious matter, and we had adequate reserves of fish already. If needed, we could augment our supply with hunting through the winter.

“I’m going to the springs to do laundry while you’re fishing,” I announced.

A flirtatious smirk lit up Peeta’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want me to join you?”

I laughed. It was a favourite place of ours to make love. “You’ll only distract me,” I answered. “And besides, the more food we can put away, the less we’ll have to venture outside when the bad weather arrives.” He feigned a pout. “It looks like we’ll have a clear view of the full moon this evening. How about we go to the pools together then? We can look at the stars,” I offered.

“Sounds perfect,” he said with a grin, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it me. “Seeing as how you’re doing laundry.” I bit my lip at his obvious attempt to taunt me with his broad, tanned torso.

My eyes followed Peeta down to the beach. I watched as he dragged the canoe out from behind the bushes where it was stowed. Tossing his fishing gear inside, he bent down to grab the gunwale, and I surprised him by taking ahold of the other side.

“You don’t have to do that, Katniss. I can manage.”

“I enjoy the view,” I said, my eyes travelling over his chest, admiring the flex of his muscles as we dragged the canoe into the water. He chuckled softly as he hopped into the canoe.

Watching as he paddled away, I didn’t miss the extra bit of flourish he put into the exercise. When he stopped to drop a hook, he gave me a wave. Filled with happy exuberance, I sucked in a breath of fresh air and returned to camp. Donning my cedar dress, I tossed my chemise and cloth dress into a basket along with the rest of the laundry and, feeling almost sprite-like, headed to the springs.

Less than a half hour later, I wrung out my dress and placed it in the basket with the other clean garments. Reaching for the last item to wash, I considered heading out to find more blackberries to add to our dinner. I glanced across to the south side of the pools. Maybe there were patches over there I hadn’t discovered yet. And Peeta’s silk neckerchief slipped from my fingers.

I chided myself as the flow of the water carried it out of reach. I waded into the middle pool to retrieve it, but it slipped between the rocks and tumbled with the water into the lower pools a second before I could grab it.

Frustrated, I chased it into the last pool. I steadied myself against the rock wall as my foot slipped on the algae-slick bottom. I stretched my arm, almost capturing my quarry, but a wave rolled over the rim of the pool and sent the neckerchief swirling from my grasp.

My angry outburst was swallowed by the crashing of the water as it sloshed against the rocks and up the front of my cedar dress. The tide was rising, nearly at its peak, so that each wave spilled freely into the pool. The water began to flow back into the cove, and I grew alarmed as the dark piece of material rushed to the edge.

I was going to lose it!

Letting go of my rock anchor, I lunged for it. Without a thought, I slipped over the outer rim, following Peeta’s neckerchief in a desperate attempt to seize the infuriating thing.

“Got you!” I called out in triumph as I caught hold of the neckerchief. I stuffed it inside the front of my dress, determined to not lose it again, just as the next wave slammed into me.

I lost my footing. Buffeted against the rocks, I lost all sense of direction as foaming water rolled over my head. I flailed about, my feet seeking purchase on the slippery rocks. My hands searched for the rim of the pool, which I was certain was near me, but I was too disoriented to know which way to reach.

There was a brief moment when the water became calm, my feet found the bottom, and I sputtered and coughed as my head emerged above the surf. I wiped the salt water from my eyes and found my bearings, but then, just as I went to crawl back into the bottom pool, the wave turned.

The force of the water was strong, like a giant, malevolent hand seizing my body and dragging me into the depths. The rocks lining the pool were beyond my grasp. I gritted my teeth and, planting my feet as best I could, leaned my back against the current so that I wouldn’t be swept out into the cove. I’d wait for the next wave and let it toss me back into the pool. To safety.

But my plans were dashed when the rock beneath my feet tilted in the surge, and I slipped on the algae. My right foot slid into a crevice, and the unstable rock shifted again, settling into a new position in the sand.

I yelped in pain as it crushed my ankle. The incoming wave arrived— the one that should save me— lacking the force to dislodge my trapped foot. I pushed with my left foot on the adjacent rock, trying to yank myself loose, but it was pointless. The waves whipped me about as if I were a piece of kelp anchored to the sea bottom.

If I stretched up and used my arms to stabilize myself, I could keep my head above the waves, but only by the slimmest margin. Heart racing, I ordered myself to think. Sucking in a deep breath during the lull between surges, I plunged under water and attempted to use my hands to roll the rock back, but it was too heavy and wouldn’t budge. By the third attempt I gave up, my heart pounding, gasping for breath.

And I panicked. The tide was still rising. I was barely keeping my head above the waves as it was. Soon I might not be able to. The day’s warm sunshine transformed into the cold darkness from my nightmares.

I remembered standing on the deck of the _Tribute._ How had I ever thought the water would bring me peace? Drowning was the worst horror I could imagine. The only thought in my head was terror.

Peeta!

Between waves, I screamed for him, but the surf was thunderous. A primal instinct to survive kept me yelling, crying, until my voice was so hoarse from the salt water repeatedly filling my mouth and nose, leaving me coughing and choking, that it sounded little more than a whisper even in my own ears.

I was trapped, facing into waves, gasping for every breath possible between each assault. But the tide kept rising. And hope deserted me. This was the end.

In the midst of final, agonizing moments of despair, the thought of Peeta finding my body, drowned and dead, was the denouement.

When suddenly, I felt hands grabbing me from behind, and he was there, his body slamming against me as the waves tossed us. He swam around front to face me.

“Peeta,” I whimpered when the wave retreated. “My foot…”

He dived down, and I could feel him tugging and trying to move the rock that had me pinned, but it was beyond his strength. He surfaced, spitting out water, and planted his feet on the rocks below. Bracing himself, his body shielded mine from the wave that rolled in against his back.

“I can’t move it,” he said. “I need to get a pole… something for leverage…”

“Don’t leave me!” I screamed, clutching whatever part of his body I could with talon-like fingers.

His eyes darted back and forth, seeking an alternative solution that I knew didn’t exist. But then, fighting to steady his foothold, his anguished face disappeared and grim determination took its place. He grabbed my face between his hands. He towered over me, not only because of his greater height, but his position on top of the rocks that had me pinned.

“Katniss. Listen to me. Look over there…” He turned my head a little to my left. “You see? The high water mark on the rocks? The tide’s almost reached it. It won’t last much longer, and it’ll start to go down.”

“I won’t make it!” I cried.

“Yes, you will. I’ll stay right here. Grab my shoulders, pull yourself as high as you can. You see? Just hold onto me, and I’ll keep your head out of the water.”

“I don’t want to die!” I choked out as water swirled around my face.

Peeta kept his hands cupped around my mouth and nose, trying to shield them from the waves that rolled past us, lashing our bodies. His eyes were wide, animated by a fierce resolve.

“You’re not going to die.” He brought his face close to mine. “Just breath, Katniss. I won’t let you die, I promise. Just breath, and don’t think about the water. The tide is turning.”

I was scared to speak, to open my mouth in case a wave choked me. But I kept my focus on him. His blue eyes locked onto mine, infusing a steeliness into my spine, giving me a boost of courage. I stretched my spine, straining to stay above the surface until the muscles in my back screamed. And I kept breathing, clutching onto Peeta as he held my face above the water. I was aware of him talking to me, but the words didn’t register. It didn’t matter. The sound of his voice was my anchor. And time ticked down. Minutes, hours, an eternity… I had no concept of its passage anymore.

It was so cold. The hot springs water could barely keep up to the ocean’s chilling influence. I shivered against Peeta. He said something, and when I opened my eyes, his lips were blue. He spoke again, and I tried to blink away my dazed state.

“What?” I squeaked.

“The water’s retreated. I need to go get a limb to pry the rock lose.” I blinked again and nodded, still confused by his words. He spoke slowly. “You have to let me go.”

I had a death grip on him, my fingers digging into his skin. He reached up to gently peel them back. But he clasped my hands. “I’ll be right back. You’re going to be fine. The water can’t get you anymore.”

Waves lapped against my throat, and it was all I could do to stop imagining they were icy fingers reaching to strangle me. Peeta was calling out to me with words of encouragement, so I shut my eyes and concentrated on his voice. There was a shift in the rock, and I was free, Peeta pulling me back into the lowest pool.

By the time he’d dragged us both onto dry land, I couldn’t move. The cold, the exhaustion from my terrifying ordeal, my swollen ankle— I was limp and drained of all strength. Peeta scooped me up like a rag doll and carried me back to our home. He laid me on the bed and stripped off my cedar dress. His neckerchief was still clinging to the inside of the bodice. My fingers dragged it free, and I handed it to him.

“I didn’t want to lose it… I saw it floating away, and I had to get it back… I went after it… I couldn’t...” I started to cry again when I saw the distress in his face.

He sputtered a few times, but gave up trying to speak and crawled into bed with me. We clung to each other, pondering how close to death I’d come. Over something as trivial as a piece of silk.

“I’m so sorry,” I whimpered through hiccups.

“Shhh,” Peeta said, stroking my wet hair. “It’s all right. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

I nestled my cheek against his chest, letting the steadily slowing beat of his heart calm me. He gently rocked me, the heat of his body inducing an unsurpassable drowsiness.

Peeta’s words were a warm breath on my face. “Just promise me you’ll never risk your life like that again.” I heard the desperation behind the comforting tone.

I wanted to answer, I wanted to tell Peeta so many other things… important things… But sleep sucked me under before I could utter a single word.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:**   Katniss bares her heart, Peeta makes a sacrifice.

 **NOTES:**  Rufous Hummingbird ( _Selasphorus rufus_ ) AKA: Ruff-necked, Cinnamon, or Nootka Hummingbird. They were first noted by Capt. James Cook when he stopped at Nootka Sound in 1778. Though one of the smallest hummers, they are known for their fearless and pugnacious temperament, aggressively taking on rivals double their size. I was intrigued with the parallels: the hummingbirds in MJ, orange and green as Peeta's and Katniss's favourite colours, and even cinnamon. In addition, the following description of the male: 

 _“...like a breathing gem, or magic carbuncle of glowing fire, stretching out its gorgeous ruff, as if to emulate the sun itself in splendour… looking like an angry coal of brilliant fire”_ (http://www.audubon.org/birds-of-america/ruff-necked-humming-bird) 

evokes images of Everlark in the Tributes Parade, the "Girl on Fire," and Peeta the blacksmith, making these feisty little birds a wonderful example from the natural world of Forged Love's setting that mirrors this pair.

Chinook salmon, AKA: Spring or King salmon. It is the largest of the Pacific salmon species, with any over 14 kg/30 lbs being referred to as "Tyee Salmon." They are often found close to the shore from spring to fall.

Pacific (wild) bleeding hearts ( _Dicentra fermosa_ ) are native to the region.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Peeta**

Katniss told me two things of great importance the day after she almost drowned.

The first one surprised and humbled me with its unexpected revelation. A summer shower had moved in shortly after sunrise, continuing late into the morning. I made to rise to tend the fire when she stopped me.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. So we lingered in bed, neither of us eager to release the other after Katniss’s brush with death.

The soft pattering of the rain on the roof had me so relaxed that when she began to kiss my neck, I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the attention. Her hand traveled across my skin, a tender caress that made me sigh with pleasure. When she slid her body atop mine, her fingers became more assertive— kneading, stroking, and grasping. I sunk my hands into her hair and pulled her in for a lazy kiss.

It quickly escalated from there. She held nothing back, and neither did I. There was a savagery in her need that I’d never experienced before, her eyes flashing silver, her mouth and hands inflaming my passion until I was swept up in her fervour. We were wild, writhing things, unburdened of constraint. Her vocalisations drove me crazy until I stopped thinking altogether, losing all inhibition as I ravished her with equal ferocity.

After, our chests heaving as we came down from dizzying heights, I couldn’t help chuckle in amazement. “What was that about? Not that I mind.” She was so quiet, I tightened my grip around her body. “Hey…”

“When I was a little girl, after Prim and I finished our studies and chores, we’d go out into the meadows near our home. I’d hold out my arms, my shawl in my hands, as if they were wings, and run as fast as I could. I would fly.” I could feel her smile against my chest. “I’d run until I couldn’t breathe. Prim would mimic me, but she was too small to keep up. She’d get tired and lie in the grass waiting for me to join her back on the ground.” A shiver rippled through her body. “There wasn’t any reason, only that I loved how it made me feel.”

I closed my eyes and imagined a little girl, her two dark braids streaming behind her as she flew through the meadow like a hummingbird.

“After my parents died, everything changed. I had a sister who depended on me. I learned to measure my happiness, my life’s purpose, my worth, by more practical endeavours. Until it all began to fall apart.”

She lifted her head. Her eyes peered into mine.

“All along, every step we’ve taken together, each time you stood between me and dying, I thought I was doing it for you. But in the water… it became so clear.”

Though I remained outwardly steady, my insides were a knot of expectation at what she would say. Tucking a curl behind her ear, in a husky voice I asked, “What was clear?”

“I realized how much I wanted to live. For myself. You did that. _You are the reason I want to live.”_

When she kissed me, the first important thing she told me that day replayed in my mind until the sound of the words imprinted indelibly on my heart.

Katniss leapt up from the bed, her eyes flashing and her expression animated. “Let’s go to the hot springs for a swim.”

I stuttered at her unexpected proposal. “We haven’t even had breakfast.”

“We’ll eat later.” She pulled me up to join her.

“Your ankle—” The swelling had disappeared, but it was discoloured from bruising.

She tested her weight. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” I hated how the worry in my voice made her enthusiasm falter ever so slightly. But she straightened and threw her shoulders back.

“Yes.” Her voice took on a defiant quality— deeper and clipped. “We’re surrounded by water. I refuse to let it get the best of me.”

Would she ever cease to amaze me?

I was the first to enter the water. Katniss stood on the edge, staring at the lower pools as the waves rolled in. I was about to tell her she didn’t need to do this, not so soon. But, when she turned to face me, the stubborn set of her jaw and the colour of her eyes under the overcast sky exuded an iron will. She stepped down into the pool and dunked her head under the surface before I could say anything.

When she emerged from the water, she was smiling. We hugged at this victory over fear. But we both kept our distance from the lower pools. Instead, we waded to the opposite end and climbed onto the ledge to enjoy the waterfall.

I understood that getting over something so traumatic took time, and I was about to tell her that— how she was the bravest person I knew— but first I had to tell her how much I loved her.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and did it— she said the second important thing that day.

The words that meant the most to me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know, but hearing it aloud made the grey day light up with unexpected radiance.

_“I love you, too.”_

A short time later, I lay on my back with my head in her lap as she caressed my face. The warm cascade from the waterfall splashed on the surface of the ledge, flowing around our bodies. I hummed in contentment at the feel of her fingers combing across my scalp.

“So… what happened this morning…” I began.

Her hands stopped, and I peeked with one eye up at her. She was smirking. “What about it?”

“I made you feel happy again… for yourself?”

“Yes.” She smiled, tugging on a strand of my hair as she twisted it around her fingers. I loved when she did that.

I gazed up at her with my best earnest face. “Like you were flying?”

She laughed. “Yes, Peeta. You’ve helped me to fly in an entirely new and wonderful way.” A rush of pride made me grin up at her. “Don’t be so smug,” she teased, but her voice was tender. Her answer sparked a curious thought, and I sat up. She quirked her eyebrow. “What is it?”

Hearing her say she loved me inspired the security to ask, “Did Gale do that?”

She tilted her head to the side and regarded me. Turning to gaze out at the cove, she shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?” It was inconceivable to me that a man, especially if he loved a woman, would deny his lover that experience, let alone miss the chance to witness it for himself.

“It’s more complicated for women. We’re not supposed to be wanton. I doubt most men even have a clue about it.” She shifted a little and tucked her feet to the side. “Are you sure you want to talk about this? About Gale?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I answered. “Well, maybe a little, but—” I grinned, “—knowing that it’s with me that it happened…” My voice dropped— a fervent request. “I want to know everything about you.”

She kissed my cheek. “All right.” We sat beside each other, our legs dangling in the water.

“The thing about me and Gale is that we started well. He was the one who first helped me when we moved to Manchester, when my mother was dying. I was at the market, trying to buy food, and he helped me out. He taught me which merchants to avoid and who were the fairest to deal with, even got me my job at the factory where he worked as well. We became friends.”

“But not more than that?”

“Well, I was only fourteen when we met, and sixteen when he left to join the Hudson’s Bay. We’d become inseparable, loyal companions, and I missed his camaraderie during the years we were apart. But I understood better than many the importance of making the most of an opportunity. So, four years later, when his letter arrived, inviting me and Prim to join him, it seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do. I was grateful to him for giving me and Prim a chance to improve our fortunes.”

“So, you weren’t in love.”

She chewed on her lip. “Our presence in the company fort was allowed under the condition of my marrying Gale, as he was acting as my sponsor. I loved him, and he loved me, in our way.”

“But the two of you… You never experienced…” I probed, wanting to understand.

She swiveled around to face me. “It was only when things started to become strained between us that I even learned it could be the same for a woman as a man. My sister could tell how discouraged I was when I couldn’t get pregnant. Prim was madly in love with her husband, Henry. And he adored her. She asked me if the rest of our marriage was good—” Katniss blushed a little, “—in the bedroom… and I confessed I had no idea what she was talking about. That’s when she told me how things were for her.”

Katniss shifted back to face the pool. She stared with clouded eyes at the dark water below us.

“But by then, it felt awkward with Gale. We were already drifting apart. I think the whole thing was as uncomfortable for him as it was for me. It hadn’t ever felt quite right between us. Maybe, because deep down, we could only see each other as friends.”

She sucked in a breath and slowly released it before continuing.

“We might’ve gotten past it if there had been a child, something to bond us. When Prim became pregnant with the child she wanted to give to us, it felt like our last chance to find some… reason for happiness. Then malaria came through Fort Vancouver, and they were both taken from us. I lost hope. It made me question the point of it all.”

She shivered, and I slipped my arm around her.

“Now you know what drove me to the deck that night on board the _Tribute_. I’d failed everyone. As a sister. A friend. A wife. Even as a woman.”

Her words cut me to the core. “You must know that isn’t true.”

She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to deny it the way she might have in the past. But her expression was wistful.

My voice dropped to a whisper. “I knew from the start that you were unforgettable, all on your own. Your worth has nothing to do with what you do for others.” I felt a stirring in my chest. “You didn’t need anyone to help you fly.”

My words brought a flash of colour to her cheeks. “That Sunday you caught me… It was the first time.” She bit her lip. “I’d started having these dreams… about you. It felt so improper, so brazen, but I didn’t care. I wanted to know.”

“Watching you do that was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.” I leaned back and let my eyes shamelessly devour her. “I’m grateful you allowed me to come with you.”

She laughed and threw her arms around me. But there was nothing playful in the way she kissed me. We spread our wings and took to the sky.

 ~~~~~

Around the middle of September, Katniss and I could feel the weight of outside concerns slipping from our backs. Soon the coast would belong only to us— the villages would be deserted for the winter. We built a fire pit inside our house in anticipation of the change in weather, shifting aside the end of one roof plank to create a sliver of an opening for the smoke. I fitted Katniss’s tightly woven door panel into the open section of wall.

Towards the end of the month the first storm of the season arrived. We saw it building in the west one morning. By the afternoon the sky provided an impressive show as swirling, inky clouds rolled in over the ocean, and the booming of waves echoed throughout the cove.

I was making a final check of the roof and walls to insure the lashings were sound, when the moisture-heavy wind began to bluster. The rain followed less than a minute later. The storm was fully engaged when Katniss came running from the forest to our house, laughing and dripping wet, but holding her first goose of the season by the neck.

“I warned you this morning you’d get soaked if you went out,” I chuckled.

“Hmph,” she snorted, shaking off her cedar cloak. “We’re having a proper feast tonight.” She was buzzing with the same energy pumping through my veins as her hands began stripping the bird of its feathers while I got the fire going. “Seeing as how you’re turning nineteen today,” she added with flashing eyes.

Katniss had declared that today was my birthday, because she believed the storm was a good omen, marking the beginning of months free from any cares other than our own needs and desires. Living with the Mowachaht had taught us the skills we needed. We had plenty of food. Our home stood firm in the face of the tempest— more than merely a shell, keeping us warm and dry, but a sheltering place of love and safety that was ours alone.

We’d survived every tribulation thrown at us so far. We had each other. We may not have forever, but we were greedy to gorge ourselves on every bit of joy possible for the time allotted to us. The world outside was turbulent, but from where I stood, the future had never appeared brighter. We had a lot to celebrate.

 ~~~~~

Close to Christmas, I noticed a change. Katniss seemed distracted, agitated. But she didn’t open up to me about what was on her mind. Days passed and I waited, thinking it was probably the melancholy that came with the holidays. She especially missed her sister’s children this time of year. When she took too long to come back from the creek with water, I grew concerned and went after her. She was sitting on the bank, the kettle beside her.

“Hey,” I announced myself. She turned her head, and her eyes were red from crying. It scared me. “What’s wrong?” I sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her. When she didn’t answer, I added, “You haven’t been yourself. I wish you’d tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” she began. I squeezed her shoulders. “I’ve been sick the last couple of days.”

Alarm flared in my chest. “What? Why didn’t you say anything?” How had I not noticed? I reached a hand to check her forehead for fever, but she snatched it from the air and held it in her lap.

“No. It’s not that.” She paused. “The first morning it hit, I didn’t want you to worry, so I went into the forest. The nausea passed eventually.”

“Katniss—” She placed her fingers on my lips to stop me.

“I didn’t say anything, because the second morning my breakfast wouldn’t stay down, I started to hope… to think, maybe it was something else.” She gave me a smile that her eyes didn’t share.

It took a little time for me to make sense of what she was implying, but when I reached to pull her hand away from my mouth so I could speak, she shook her head and her eyes grew glassy.

“Everything has been so perfect, it was easy to believe in the impossible.” When she released her breath, her whole body seemed to shrink from the loss. “I found out it wasn’t true this morning. It must have been a bad piece of shellfish or something.”

I pulled her against my chest, seeking to shelter her from the despondency, but I didn’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

I shook my head when she said it. “You don’t have anything to apologize to me for.”

She lifted her head from my shoulder. “But aren’t you disappointed?”

To have a child with Katniss, a family— I allowed a moment to imagine it. I took a measured breath and laid a hand on her cheek. She leaned into it. “Maybe a little. But mostly because I know how much it means to you.” Her body began to tremble, and her breathing became ragged as she choked back tears. “But I meant what I said. If it’s just you and me, it’s enough.”

I let her cry for as long as the tears flowed. I held out my sleeve, and she wiped her eyes and nose. “It’s for the best,” she said, “given our situation. We have no guarantees, no certainty about what dangers lie ahead.”

I rubbed her back. “The closer to spring we get, the more I worry about how to keep us safe.” We had Katniss’s bow, a dagger, a knife, a hatchet. That was it. Hiding was our only defence.

Katniss’s voice was a whisper. “Back in Yuquot, when everyone was so sick, I saw mothers watching their children die, dying themselves as their babies cried for them. For a moment, seeing that pain, I thought that maybe I was the lucky one… for a moment.”

The old sorrow welled up inside me. “My mother… and you lost Prim…” I remembered my father’s guilt. “If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.” It was the best comfort I could offer, even as I saw the ember of an ancient fire in Katniss’s eyes. The one that burned in her heart, calling her to have a child of her own. I wondered if she saw that ember in my eyes too.

We stayed by the creek until the sun dropped below the trees and we grew cold. I stood, dipped the kettle in the stream to fill it with water, and held out my hand to Katniss. “Let’s go home.”

That night in bed, as I snugged her back against my chest, she tilted her head towards me. “Do you ever wonder what happened to Tanakmis?”

Hearing her name caused a small stab of pain in my heart. When I brushed a curly lock of Katniss’s hair from her face, I remembered the way the little girl had loved to play with them.

“Sometimes. Are you upset we didn’t bring her with us?” It was difficult to not blame myself for abandoning the child.

Katniss rolled her body around in my arms and looked at me. “It was the best choice. We couldn’t know what would happen. It was safer for her to stay behind. But I can’t help think— how many of her village survived? She’s so young to be left on her own amongst strangers.”

“I know.”

 ~~~~~

The winter squalls were our near-constant companion for the next two months. On the calmer days, even in the rain, we luxuriated in the hotsprings, appreciating them more than we had during the warmer months we’d lived at the cove. But there were days when all we could do was huddle inside, wrapped in blankets and each other, as rain and wind howled outside. We didn’t mind.

The first leaves budding out would have ordinarily brought a welcome break to the relentlessly inclement weather, but this spring it was impossible to not feel a creeping foreboding. I sensed the outside world’s presence, lurking just beyond our peripheral vision. I feared our grace period was coming to an end.

“We made it safely through last spring and summer,” I reassured Katniss. “We’ll do it again.”

But it began to trouble my sleep. Katniss was restless, letting me know that anxiety plagued her mind, too.

 ~~~~~

Late in February, we awoke to a heavily overcast day. It was unusually chilly, but it was so calm that I decided to go fishing. Katniss said she wanted to go to the estuary to see if any ducks had arrived yet, and maybe harvest some fresh nettle shoots. We were eager to replenish our dwindling winter provisions with fresh food. She came out of our home with the copper kettle— its wire handle strung on a piece of rope across her back beside the quiver.

“I’ll fetch water on the way back,” she said. “It’ll be colder out on the water. You should wear this.” She handed me my capote coat, and I smiled as I took it from her hands and slipped it on.

“You need to stay warm, too,” I replied and wrapped her woollen coat snuggly around her frame, tugging her against my body for a hug. My hand brushed against the hilt of our dagger hanging from the tie at her waist.

With a parting kiss, we each headed off to our tasks. I jumped in the canoe and paddled out to a spot that had been lucky for me.

I was frustrated when over an hour passed without even a nibble. I gazed outside our cove. The waves were more languid than usual. It was still early in the year. I doubted there would be anyone to spot me, so I decided to paddle out to open water. I wouldn’t go far— only enough to see if I could have more success.

My efforts were rewarded a short time later when a small lingcod took my bait. Knowing Katniss would be angry for my imprudence, I picked up my paddle to head back in. At least I had something for our dinner that night. Katniss was sure to have more to add.

As I directed the bow towards the mouth of the cove, my paddle sweeping through the water, a flash of white above the trees to the north caught my eye. It was a cloud, I told myself, a trick of light on a day with varying shades of grey colouring the sky. I didn’t want to see the angular solidity of it against the filmy backdrop. Or the way it rocked up and down with the waves.

My gut tightened as I watched the sailing ship came around a point of land, heading south past our cove. But instead of continuing down the coast, she changed course and entered the waters of the inlet on the far side of our peninsula.

I was bobbing near the entrance to the cove, and the day was misty, so I doubted they saw me, wearing my white coat. I didn’t make any attempt to catch their notice. For a few selfish seconds I weighed the repercussions of pretending I hadn’t seen them either. But I couldn’t hold that lie between us. Not with the threat to our lives increasing by the day. Katniss had a right to know. I would tell her, and we’d decide what to do together. Fired by the need to get to her, my arms pumped, and the canoe surged with the surf back into the cove.

I jumped out of the canoe and was dragging it ashore when Katniss came running, frantically yelling my name. My first thought was that she’d seen the ship, too.

But I was wrong.

“Peeta!” she panted, fighting for breath. “They saw me… the boys…”

What? I gripped her shoulders, the ship forgotten. “What boys?”

“Two of them, maybe thirteen, fourteen-years-old... hunting… followed my path from the estuary… I stopped to get water.” She sucked in a breath. “We startled each other, I think. I didn’t know what to do, so I threw the kettle down the creek, hoping they’d go after it. To give me time to run, to get back to you.”

Her eyes were wide with terror. I could feel her vibrating through my hands. I was shaking, too.

“There must be others… they’ll tell them about us,” she gasped. “We have to go, Peeta. Now!” She struggled to extricate herself from my grasp, attempting to drag me by the arm up the slope. “We have to get our things!”

I clenched my jaw and pulled her back. “No. We don’t need to go back for anything.” Her face flashed with a mix of anger and frustration as she tried to shrug my hands off her. “There’s a ship.” She blinked at me in confusion. “I saw it, just now, entering the inlet.” I locked my eyes on hers. “Our rescue, Katniss.”

She furrowed her brow, absorbing my news. The clouds in her eyes cleared— a flicker of relief at our deliverance, before dimming with what looked like regret. But her expression shifted, her grey eyes growing steely with resolve. She knew what I knew— we’d run out of options. And time.

She ran to the opposite side of the canoe, and together we hauled it back into the water. But she froze and turned to me, her face filled with anguish.

“My sewing box!”

Her pain flowed through me. I gritted my teeth. “I’ll go back for it.”

But before my hands left the gunwale, she reached across the vessel and grabbed my forearm. “No! No,” she said again in a hard voice. “Leave it. It’s not worth the risk. We haven’t time.” The stoicism of her countenance— the tightness of her lips curved almost into a scowl— I saw echoes of all the times she’d had to make tough choices to survive, the sacrifices.

Hopping into the bow, she retrieved the second paddle. With a final shove I leapt into the stern, and we paddled with everything we had out of the cove and around the point to reach the ship. In our haste, I forgot to take a final glance at the hot springs.

A longboat was being dragged onto the beach. One of the sailors called out an alert when he saw us. We called back and raced to intersect them. Their ship lay anchored a few hundred yards away, but I could see crewmen gathering on the deck to see what was up.

We reached the men on shore and wasted no time explaining our story in the briefest terms we could, Katniss and I alternating as the other caught their breath.

The sailor who addressed us, the second mate by the name of Mr. Homes, shook his head in disbelief. “We thought the _Tribute_ went down in a storm with all hands. We had no idea.” More shocking, he revealed that it was their ship that the Mowachaht had scared off with gunfire almost two years ago, before C’awa’quu’as ordered the _Tribute_ to be burned.

“That explains it,” Mr. Homes said. “We’d hoped they might know something about your fate, expected a friendly reception given everything we knew about past relations. We couldn’t understand it. Only thing we could figure was they were angry over bad dealings with others, or resentment with the sea otter gone and the forts built elsewhere for—”

Katniss was shaking with impatience and cut the man off. “We’re on the run, there’s a hunting party close by, they know we’re here. We have to leave before they return.”

Mr. Homes became grave. “Nootka?” The possibility of his ship encountering the same fate as the _Tribute_ jolted him into heightened alert.

Katniss shook her head and made an exasperated noise. “I don’t know. I don’t think so— I think I’d’ve recognized them.”

“Probably from another tribe who live nearby,” I said.

“All right. No time to waste,” Homes answered with renewed composure. “We came ashore for timber to repair a damaged spar. If these aren’t the ones who killed your crew, we likely don’t have to fear. Most of these tribes are content with a bit of trade if we have an encounter. But we’ll get you on board.” He gave the order for some of his men to row us to their ship while the rest harvested a suitable tree for their repairs.

“Where are you headed?” Katniss asked as a sailor helped her into the vessel.

“South. Fort Vancouver,” Homes answered. “We’re bringing down the winter furs from Fort Simpson.” She didn’t say anything, only nodded.

I was wading alongside the boat, preparing to board, when one of the men yelled, “Sir!”

We all looked up, our gazes following the direction of his pointing hand.

From a bank of mist emerged a spectral sight that made my heart clench with fear. One, then three, then ten large canoes appeared. I stopped counting as more came into view. Each held no less than a dozen men.

Katniss cried out my name. She recognized the lead canoe, too. C’awa’quu’as, standing in the bow, ordered his men to turn into the inlet to intercept us. The sailors became alarmed, our terrible story fresh in their minds, realizing how outnumbered they were.

My own thoughts raced, verging on panic as well. Would the tyee attack out of vengeance? Would the captain respond with fear, and more people die? Or would the tyee’s strategic desire to restore trade win out, making negotiation possible? Maybe...

But within seconds, I realized the risk was too great. His mercurial nature was as familiar to me as his pragmatism. He might act out of desperation after losing so many people in the measles outbreak. But desperate enough to attack another ship, jeopardizing more of his men?

Or enough to take a different victory…

I knew something the tyee wanted. I gambled he’d make the more expedient choice.

Homes ordered all the men into the longboat. The water was splashing up to my waist, the last of the sailors on board, and they were reaching to heave me in.

My eyes darted between the ship and the tyee. And then they settled on Katniss, and I knew the instant she understood. She was frantic, screaming at me to get in. A couple men tried to grab for me, but I yelled at Homes to get Katniss to the ship and raise anchor, just in case. That I’d take care of C’awa’quu’as and his warriors.

I turned to Katniss.

_“Ya’akuuqua suuw’a.”_

With that final goodbye to her, I gave the vessel a shove into the deep. It took three sailors to pin Katniss down as she struggled, almost swamping their boat. She kept screaming at me. I watched her moving farther away, dying a little inside with each stroke of the oars.

Dragging my eyes from her to the canoes, I saw the tyee hesitate, my capote coat familiar to him. He ordered his men to shore.

I turned to the ship. With an aching heart but a growing calm, I watched as sailors hauled Katniss— kicking, thrashing, and wailing— onto the deck. It gave me a strange and familiar sensation, as if time were rewinding before my eyes. I waded back to the beach. By the time the canoes reached me, the ship had hoisted sails and was heading out to sea.

My relief, seeing Katniss safe and on her way back to another life, sailed away with her, and terror slipped into its place. I started to shake.

C’awa’quu’as disembarked. He looked bigger than I remembered. But also older— deep lines creased his face, giving him a grim and weary appearance. I met him halfway, and dropped to the ground with my face in the sand.

“Let them go, great Tyee. I beg you. It’s me who’s wronged you. Not them. Not Katniss. I’m the one who pledged my loyalty, not her.” I swallowed, fighting to keep my voice from wavering.

He stood before me, unmoving and silent, the weight of his stare heavy on my back. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his men, some still in canoes, others standing on the beach nearby, awaiting his orders.

“But I had to honour my obligation to my wife, for her safety, her life, first. You understand. You, too, would do anything for your wife, your people.” I held my breath.

When he didn’t respond, I dared to glance up, falling back prostrate at his feet at seeing his stony face.

“This time, I promise I will serve you. Forever, tyee.”

I was transported in my memory back to the beach in Friendly Cove two years ago, the same pledge on my lips. Only this time, all hope for escape was gone.

“Last time you said you would kill yourself.” His voice was cold, lacking discernable emotion.

I shook my head. “Not if you let Katniss go. I will be your blacksmith until I die.”

The seconds ticked by, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach. But I was scared to lift my head, to show anything but complete supplication.

“I do not wish to kill you,” C’awa’quu’as said quietly. “I will forgive you.”

Releasing the breath locked in my chest, I thanked him for his mercy and kissed his feet, the act of respect from a slave to his master.

“But a tyee cannot allow a slave to defy him and go unpunished,” he said firmly. I looked up, and though his face was hard, his eyes were sad.

No, he couldn’t. Not in front of the chiefs and warriors whose respect and fear he must maintain.

With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I nodded. Several men were ordered to hold me down. He drew his war club from beneath his impressive sea otter cloak. I didn’t fight. What was the point?

As I lay on my back, looking at the sky, the sun burned through a small opening in the clouds. A ray of light flashed off the weapon that I’d made, illuminating the blade and the words written there. A mirthless chuckle rumbled in the back to my throat. Oh, the irony…

There was a moment of white, blinding pain, and then everything went black.

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** A devastated Katniss returns to Fort Vancouver.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**Katniss**

Peeta’s final words echoed in my ear— meant for only me, meaningless to everyone else. I tried to wriggle free, but many hands held me down, their frantic voices drowning out my cries. It was as if I were back in the cove, my foot trapped by the rocks, the waves choking me. A man was yelling— ordering me to stop struggling, saying that I was going to capsize their boat.

It only made me fight harder. I’d left my bow in the canoe. My fingers grasped ahold of the dagger’s hilt, but it was taken from my hand.

“Go back!” I screamed, pleading with them, but they ignored me. I was as good as invisible in their haste to board the ship. A few vital details passed between the second officer— his name escaped me— and the captain, commands were given to make sail, and men scattered to their stations.

My distress swelled into desperation. The longboat was still in the water— I could get to it before it was lifted onto the deck. I broke free, attempting to run to it, but it was futile. If the ship’s officer hadn’t barked out an order to take me below deck, I’d have jumped overboard. Instead, my arms were seized by two sailors, and I was pulled away, wailing and fighting like a wildcat. I strained to see Peeta and caught a glimpse of him standing on the beach, his white coat like a beacon against a backdrop of dark grey sand and evergreens. But then he was lost to me.

I was ushered into a small cabin. One of the sailors attempted to lead me over to the berth, but I yanked my arm free and retreated to the corner of the room. They left, closing the door behind them. I sprang for the latch, but I heard one of the men order the other to stand guard, to make sure I stayed inside.

_For my own well-being._

Safely imprisoned. Spared but captive once again.

I sank to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Peeta was gone, abandoned. To unspeakable punishments. Possibly dying at this very moment. Maybe already dead.

Desperation dissolved into anguish. My eyes were blinded by hot tears, my throat constricting so that my breath came in gulping gasps.

A promise echoed from the past. _“I want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to get you home.”_ I dropped my face into my hands.

Peeta Mellark had saved my life. Again. Once, so long ago, I hadn’t known how I felt about that. This time I had a much better idea. I hated him for it. Because if only one of us made it out alive, it was supposed to be him. My body rocked back and forth as I sobbed.

The ship rolled as it came underway by the power of the sails, causing me to tumble to the side. I reached out a hand to steady myself on the edge of the berth.

The hot brew of emotions drained from my blood, leaving me shivering and weak. My body was as heavy as lead as I crawled onto the narrow bed— still too wide without him beside me. I continued to weep, my tears carrying away the last of my strength, flowing like the water swishing against the hull.

Men were calling out to each other, but there was only one voice that I longed to hear. My eyelids grew heavy, so I closed my eyes and summoned the sound that had the power to calm me, desperate to hold onto this piece of him. All else faded away.

 ~~~~~

_“Ya’akuuqua suuw’a.”_

_The words reach me as I cry out in terror, my arms grasping the sleeves on his white capote coat. He floats in the water beside the canoe. I try to drag him out of the ocean, but the waves are unrelenting, and he is too heavy. He isn’t helping me either. He’s pushing me away, and I am forced to fight him, my fingers clawing to hold on._

_“You have to let me go, Katniss,” Peeta says._

_“You’re the one who’s supposed to live,” I wail. But he is prying my fingers loose._

_A dense fog of darkness descends around us. The narrowest sliver of sun— brilliant, deep orange, as hot as molten metal— pierces the sky low on the horizon. It vanishes into the sea._

_And Peeta slips from my fingers into the void._

I awoke in agony— a burning weight on my chest from holding my breath, my limbs so taut it felt like they might snap— disoriented in the fading light. The last embers of a setting sun poured in through the porthole, and I tried to make sense of where I was. My body was tossed about, so I reached for Peeta to anchor me. Then it all came flooding back.

_“I love you.”_

He’d said it in the Nootka language, not English. Always thinking about me. These men knew that I was the wife of a company clerk. He wouldn’t say or do anything to expose me, to sully my character or reputation.

A knock on the door made me flinch. It opened a crack, and a sailor peeked inside.

“Excuse me, ma’am. But, if you don’t mind, the captain’s requested to speak with you.”

I wiped my nose with my sleeve, swung my feet to the floor, and stood. The vessel pitched as I was smoothing out my dress, and I toppled into his arms. My stomach lurched with the unwelcome sensation of seasickness.

I reached a hand to the door frame to regain my balance and remove myself from the young man’s grasp. Blushing, he spluttered an apology. The expression on my face left him a little stricken, possibly worried that he’d manhandled me inappropriately. But that wasn’t it.

“What did you call me?” I demanded.

“Mrs. Hawthorne. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

I had a vague memory, a fraction of a second between seeing the plan in Peeta’s eyes and the sailors rushing to board the longboat. He’d said, “Get Mrs. Hawthorne to the ship…”

 _Mrs. Hawthorne._ Peeta’s intentions were clear. He was releasing me. To live. Because, despite all our pretending, our brief sojourn together was a fool’s paradise, and it was time to return to the real world. He was telling me that I should go home to my loved ones. That I could still restore my relationship with Gale— it was my choice to make.

Why hadn’t I told him while I’d had the chance? When he asked me if he was my real husband, I should’ve answered without equivocation. It wasn’t limited to a single place. It wasn’t dependent on circumstance. The life he was giving back to me was the one that no longer felt real. It was a pretend husband that awaited me there. Peeta deserved to know he was the only one who held my heart.

I was going home to Fort Vancouver. _Home._ The word failed to register any emotion in me. I couldn’t even summon joy at the thought of being reunited with Henry and Prim’s children. Gale was hundreds of miles north at Fort Simpson. It came as a relief I wouldn’t have to deal with him for a while, because I had no idea what I was going to do.

The sailor escorted me to the captain’s quarters. The ship’s commander and his first officer stood from the dining table when I entered. Captain Templesmith introduced himself. A chair was pulled out for me at the table, and I took a seat.

An attendant set a cup of tea in front of me. My hands circled it, welcoming its warmth. I brought it close to my lips, but, before taking a sip, I closed my eyes and let the steam waft over my nose and face.

The sensation conjured up sweet memories— Peeta offering me his mug on the _Tribute_ when I was seasick. The misty vapours of the hot springs condensing on my skin as I swayed my hips like a Sandwich Island girl after Peeta described how they’d once captured his imagination. The way he’d jumped up to join me, and we moved to the rhythmic undulations of the ocean and wind-whipped trees playing nature’s music.

It brought a nearly unbearable ache to my heart, but I held fast to it because memories were the only thing of him I had left.

I was invited to help myself to a plate of treats. Along with some sweet biscuits, there were several pieces of chocolate. Another memory came rushing back— Peeta’s excited face when he’d saved that box for us to share.

_“When we reach the last one, we’ll be rescued…”_

I shook my head and pushed the plate away, not wanting anything to do with the delicacies if I couldn’t share them with him.

Captain Templesmith was speaking to me. I looked at his lips, failing to comprehend his words. He indicated to a paper laying on the table. It was covered in notes written by a hasty hand.

“I’ve been given a brief description of events from Mr. Homes, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped. The captain knitted his brow in confusion, and his first officer— Danton… Dalton… I couldn’t remember, not that I cared— checked his notes. I lowered my voice and added, “Katniss. Please. Call me Katniss.”

“Very well,” he replied. They both addressed me with respectful concern, but I hated them. I hated anyone who’d had a hand in this rescue.

“To say it is a shock to discover you alive after all this time would be an understatement,” Templesmith continued. “And I know you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. But I need to ask you in detail what happened, for the official record—”

I cut him off, meeting his gaze for the first time, contempt radiating from my eyes. “You left him there… You left him there to die.” Bitter anger melded with my despair, asserting itself from deep within my chest.

“I’m very sorry about that, but unfortunately we weren’t presented with any options. Given the fate of the _Tribute,_ you, of all people, should understand...”

I glared at him. And he cleared his throat. “The young man’s heroism and sacrifice will be noted in my report to the company, of course.”

The first officer asked for his name, dipping his quill in ink.

“Peeta… Peeta Mellark…” I started to cry again, my rage displaced at the sound of his name on my lips.

I heard someone sigh. No doubt from frustration in having to contend with an overwrought Englishwoman whom they judged to be pushed beyond her delicate limits.

“Perhaps we’ll talk tomorrow,” Templesmith said, “when you are more composed.”

The sailor escorted me back to my cabin— I wondered whose quarters I’d usurped with my ungrateful presence. When I failed to show my face in the morning, feeling ill and heartsick, I was finally summoned for afternoon tea.

They recorded the sparse details I provided, but when they asked for further explanations, I pretended to be too fragile to answer. I turned to gaze out the stern window, looking north. I saw the trailing waves carved by the ship’s hull, a foaming path leading all the way back to the hot springs cove. I could feel it like a line of sinew being stretched to the breaking point as we left Peeta in our wake.

“I’d be dead along with the rest of them if not for him,” I whispered to no one in particular.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the captain and first officer exchange telling glances. Maybe they were reading more into my story from the degree of my distress. I didn’t care what they thought about it.

After that, they left me alone. I remained in my cabin, taking my meals in solitude, until we sailed up the Columbia River. At one point, I requested paper and a pen, thinking I would write to Peeta’s family in England to let him know he hadn’t perished two years ago. I wanted to tell them about their brave and remarkable son and brother, how he’d preserved my life. But, in the end, I couldn’t do it. It would be cruel to give false hope. And impossible for me to admit he may now be gone.

When I closed my eyes, images of Peeta were interspersed with that of C’awa’quu’as’s dark eyes boring into mine. My misery became focussed, like the point of Peeta’s dagger— they’d reluctantly returned it to me after I’d shed tears, insisting it helped me sleep having it nearby— as I met the tyee’s glare with equal severity. The journey gave me the time to consider my next move. It was the only thing that kept me from falling apart.

 ~~~~~

The news travelled quickly once the ship arrived at Fort Vancouver. I’d barely stepped foot on solid ground when my brother-in-law, Henry, was pulling me into his embrace. Four blond-haired children surrounded me, their bodies shielding me from the gathering people as my story rippled through the crowd in excited, astonished tones.

“Where’s the chief factor?” I said to Henry when he finally let me go. “I must speak with him.” My eyes darted between all the people pressing in on us, finding it difficult to breathe.

“First we get you to the house,” Henry answered. I was about to protest when he added for the crowd’s benefit, “As the fort’s doctor, I insist. Let me make sure you’re all right. This isn’t the time for questions and greetings.”

At first I balked, urgent to meet with Fort Vancouver’s leader, but the overwhelming reception and curiosity of so many watchful eyes set my heart racing with anxiety. After a year spent on the remote coast with the company of only one other person, I yearned for the refuge of my brother-in-law’s home.

Henry’s servant prepared a room for me along with a basin of warm water and towels. Henry patted my shoulder after I assured him I was quite healthy. He went downstairs to have tea made while I freshened up. A short time later, clean garments were brought for me to wear. The dress I’d modified was dirty and threadbare— ill-suited for even this rustic outpost.

Alone and in a quiet space, I sat on the bed, gathering the thoughts that had been scattered by my frenetic reception. I had a mission, and I was going to need to get my wits about me if I had any hope of convincing the chief factor.

I finished dressing, making myself presentable for my return to respectable civilization. The woman staring back at me in the looking glass wasn’t the person who dwelled inside. She was trussed by a restrictive corset and rounded out by excessive layers. The curly texture of her hair was smoothed down and pinned at the back of her head instead of in a loose braid or falling freely over her shoulders and down her back. Only her eyes held a trace of the wild— wide, stormy, and piercing— as she judged the woman standing before her.

When I came downstairs, Henry and I shared tea as the children clustered on either side of me on the sofa. He did not ask any questions about the past two years. He said there would be time later, that it could wait until after I’d met with the fort leadership. I thanked him.

“It’s a miracle, Katniss. I still can’t fully grasp it— how you survived when so many others died.”

“I wouldn’t have without Peeta,” I said.

He regarded me, and I could see the questions in his eyes, but we were interrupted by a messenger from the chief factor, saying that, if I was able, he would like to meet with me.

I stood and followed the messenger to the Big House, which held the family residence and headquarters of the two men responsible for the administration of Fort Vancouver and the entire Columbia District. I sucked in a deep breath and entered the office.

Chief Factor John McAllister and his second-in-command, Chief Trading Officer James Campbell, rose from their chairs and invited me to sit at the desk.

After a few introductory comments from Mr. McAllister, expressing his happiness for my safe return, Mr. Campbell interjected, “We’ve sent a dispatch to intercept your husband…” Irrational hope bloomed in my chest, but it instantly withered when I realized they weren’t referring to Peeta. “Mr. Hawthorne should arrive in a couple days.”

Gale? Here in Fort Vancouver?

My confusion prompted Campbell to explain that Gale had recently been sent to help build a new outpost, Fort Nisqually, several days’ ride north. “Mr. Hawthorne was invaluable in helping establish Fort Simpson, so he was selected for the task. By coincidence he was coming here to give report of the progress over the winter.” I didn’t say anything. “It is at least one positive outcome from this tragedy, to be able to reunite one of our own with his wife.” He gave me a smile. “He will be beside himself to hear that you are alive, I’m certain.”

I didn’t want to talk about Gale. Peeta was the one who needed me right now.

But first they wished to review my story— referring to the report that Captain Templesmith had provided and asking for confirmation of various details. They asked questions about the cargo, how the tyee had disposed of it, and how much remained in his possession. I grew impatient.

When McAllister inquired about the events leading up to the massacre of the crew, I swallowed. This was my chance to turn our conversation to the most pressing issue— and person— on my mind.

“Peeta is the one you should be asking. I was below deck during that time, at the captain’s insistence. Everything I’m able to tell you comes from him. But he’s not here. Because he allowed himself to be recaptured so that Captain Templesmith could get his— _your_ — ship to safety.”

John McAllister, forty-eight years old, at six-feet, four-inches tall with long, prematurely white hair and flinty eyes, was an imposing man. The chief factor was as equally well-known for his fiery nature as he was his dedication to honourable conduct.

He regarded me and said, “Mr. Mellark, the armourer.”

“Mr. Mellark… Peeta is the one who deserves your attention. He did his best to get word out through trade goods he made for the tyee, hoping his messages would reach one of the forts to let you know the fate of your ship and her crew. But help never reached us, so we had only each other to turn to. His quick thinking and dedication to my safety are the only reasons I am here to tell you this. After the sacrifices he’s made...” I leaned forward in the chair, the palms of my hands pressed on the desk to steady me, my eyes pleading and earnest. “Please. You must send a ship to Friendly Cove.”

McAllister’s countenance softened, exposing the compassion that underpinned his stern authority. “We are in his debt for your life. However, Mr. Campbell and I have spent enough years in Indian country to know how runaway slaves are perceived by their captors.” My heart began to sink.

James Campbell spoke next. At thirty years of age, with his appearance bearing the trace of his African blood blended with his Scottish ancestry, he reminded me of a young version of my father. “We aren’t British Navy, Mrs. Hawthorne. Our men are not trained military. We’re traders under direction of a Board of Governors who have invested large sums of money on a business venture.”

“Then be businessmen. Go as traders. Make Nootka Sound one of the stops on your route. You have in the past. Why not now?”

“You must know that Friendly Cove holds little economic interest for us anymore. And the _Tribute_ isn’t the first ship to meet with violence on the west coast of Vancouver Island. It has been the company’s policy to establish forts along the mainland coast for practical reasons.”

McAllister continued, “This isn’t London, or even Upper Canada or Montreal. This is the Columbia District. As you know, life on the frontier is fraught with risk. Both Mr. Campbell and I have come close to death ourselves. We survive best by avoiding conflict.”

He turned in his chair and indicated to the Hudson’s Bay Company coat of arms hanging on the wall behind him. _“Pro pelle cutem_ is our motto,” he said in a low, pensive voice.

Yes, I was well acquainted with it. _A skin for a skin._ A tribute to the bold company men who put their hides on the line in the acquisition of the furs.

“It isn’t easy,” he added, “but sometimes difficult decisions must be made. It would be impossible to justify such an endeavour to our leadership back east and in London.”

“But I know you have discretionary powers. If there is a chance Peeta is still alive...” I persisted, begging now.

The depth of my anguish over Peeta was the likely reason behind the contemplative way the two men stared at me. But if they suspected anything about the nature of our bond, they didn’t give any indication.

“You must understand, after what happened to the _Tribute,_ that to put another company ship’s crew and her valuable cargo at risk for a man who, even by your own admission, is quite possibly dead, is too great. I’m very sorry.”

Campbell straightened the papers making up the report, and McAllister cleared his throat. And I knew in that moment that I’d failed. Their words of regret that followed were unintelligible to my ear. My hands slid into my lap, and I fought to keep from breaking down before them. Not to run from the office.

Lost in dark thoughts, I failed to notice I was being addressed. But I looked up when Campbell said my name a second time. The two men were staring at me.

“Are you unwell, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

I glared at them. How could I be well? My heart was shattered. How could I ever be fine again? I would be haunted by the sight of Peeta, standing on the beach while I was delivered to safety, for the rest of my days. For a life I didn’t want. A choking sound issued in the back of my throat as my hands twisted the fabric of my skirt.

To my relief I was dismissed. A servant escorted me back to Henry’s house so I could continue to recover from my ordeal and await Gale’s arrival. Not even the doting attention of my nieces and nephews could banish the torment of my soul, and I excused myself to my room.

I was reminded of Peeta lashing himself to shreds, and I wondered if I could do the same until there was nothing left. I deserved no less. Abandoning him was the definitive indictment to add to the list of my unforgivable failures.

That night a thought sparked in my mind. Peeta was so clever. He knew the right things to say, the best way to act. I imagined that he was alive and well back in the tyee’s service. Maybe it was possible he’d find another way to escape. I clasped the notion to my chest like a lifeline. But eventually, my mind drifted back to the hot springs cove.

Hours later, as I resurfaced from sleep, I knew it was only a dream. The sun glowing warmly behind my closed eyelids wasn’t the morning rays streaming in the open wall of our home. It was only a beautiful illusion that Peeta’s fingers entwined with mine, that the unbound waves of his hair brushed over my skin as his lips kissed their way down my body.

But the sensation was so sweet I longed to stay inside it, needing it to be real, so that when I felt my hand being squeezed as the mattress gave a little under someone’s weight, my heart leapt at the inconceivable possibility. I opened my eyes, and the elation vanished.

Gale was sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing down at me and holding my hand. I was filled with guilt seeing the flicker of sadness in his eyes at my unenthusiastic reaction to seeing him for the first time in two and half years. He sighed and laid my hand at my side.

“Good morning, Catnip.”

He hadn’t called me that since we were back in England. Hearing it, along with his touch, transported me back to the first day we’d met. A merchant at the market had given me insufficient change when I was trying to buy produce with my meagre funds. While I protested, the tall, lanky boy had swept in beside me and, to my shock, stuffed a cabbage and a bunch of carrots into a bag strung over his shoulder.

“Come on!” he’d hissed, grabbing my hand and dragging me away. The woman had shrieked, “Thief!” after us.

Through the crowded market, dodging people and stalls, down back lanes, we’d raced. We ran until we had to stop to catch our breath.

I yelled at him, “What are trying to do— get me arrested?” I recalled his roguish grin like it was yesterday.

“Just getting you what you were owed. Don’t worry about the police— everyone knows that woman will try to cheat the new, unsuspecting ones like you.”

Something about his smile had made me want to get to know him, to trust him. To make him my friend.

Here we were, nearly twenty years later. What remained of that boy and girl? I sat up. “When did you arrive?” I glanced at the window and saw the sun was high.

“About an hour ago. When the dispatch caught up to me, I rode through the night. You were asleep when I got here, and Henry said you needed your rest. I’ve already met with McAllister.”

He kissed my forehead and gave my arm a gentle pat. “I’ll wait downstairs and leave you to get dressed. When you’re ready, we can talk.” He turned back when he reached the door and hesitated, searching for words. “When I heard the news…” He shook his head in amazement. “It doesn’t feel real, Katniss.”

No, it didn’t.

A while later, I entered the parlour. Only Gale was there. I suspected Henry had sent the children out to play, ensuring we would have privacy.

We paused, awkward and uncertain, but when Gale opened his arms, I fell into them. Whatever else had changed between us, I needed my friend. The earlier reminiscing reminded me of how much I’d missed that part of our relationship.

We sat— Gale in an armchair, me on the sofa opposite him— both of us waiting for the other to speak.

I broke the silence. “How’ve you been? They informed me that you’ve been reassigned.”

He nodded. “I’ll be given charge of Fort Nisqually when it’s completed.”

I was sincere when I answered, “That’s good. It’s what you hoped for.”

His eyes grew glassy. “I’d hoped for many things.” It was difficult for me to meet his eyes. “When they told us the _Tribute_ was lost and there was no hope of finding you, I threw myself into the work.” He dropped his gaze. “I gave up on you when I should’ve tried harder...”

I reached across and laid my hand on his arm. Regret seemed so pointless.

He shook his head. “I was even planning to remarry. The daughter of one of the clerks joining us at the new fort." His eyes became fixed on my hands folded in my lap. Did he notice the missing ring?

“You were never one to abide being alone,” I said softly.

"But, of course, having you back, my pledge to you hasn’t changed. I’ll send word, let her know—”

“Don’t.” He furrowed his brow. “Gale, we both know how we left things. If you care for this woman…” His eyes told me that he did— I knew him so well. “I’m letting you go.”

He gave a deep sigh. “I love you Katniss, even if—”

“—Even if you’re not _in love_ with me. I know,” I answered without bitterness. “We tried to make it into something it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe if there’d been a child...”

He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have made any difference.” His face grew pensive. “It wasn’t only about children, was it? I know you accepted my proposal mostly for Prim’s sake. And I’d thought that since we were good partners, friends—”

“From the day we met.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

I nodded. “Prim’s death, our not having any children… We just weren’t strong enough to weather that storm.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing, bringing you out here.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” I answered. A hint of a smile warmed his face. The tightness in my chest started to release. “You and I… I’ll always be grateful to you for your friendship, for giving me and Prim a chance.”

It felt good to get it all out. But there was more that needed to be said. “While I was captive, you weren’t the only one who moved on.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I read the report, heard your story.”

_Not the whole story._

“There are things I didn’t tell them. How Peeta, the armourer I was captive with, saved my life by passing me off as his wife. How close we grew.” I took a breath. “How eventually our pretending to be married... became real for us.”

He searched my eyes. “I can imagine that it must’ve been very difficult for you.”

My smile was wistful when I replied. “Not really. We fell in love. And now you’ve found someone else, too.”

My words made Gale shift in his chair, and he ran a hand over his face.

I took his hand. “We may have been born in England, brought our ideas about marriage here with us. But we aren’t exactly British anymore. We live is this new world and have learned to adapt to all its strange ways. One day things will change, but for now we are free to be more pragmatic. Release me. Just as you did your first wife.”

Gale studied me for a long while with a solemn face. “If it’s truly what you want, Katniss, we’ll dissolve our marriage.” I nodded. After a pause, he asked, “Will you stay with Henry?”

“Until I can make other arrangements. He'd never ask me to give up my room, but it isn’t fair for me to impose when he already has a growing family to care for. I’ll find work— sewing, laundry, maybe help with the farming...”

“You know I’ll honour the company’s mandate and provide financial support to you— for as long as you need it. But unless you are _turned off_ to another commissioned gentleman, you’ll have to leave the fort, live in the village with the labourers,” he replied with concern in his voice.

I sucked in a breath and bit my lip.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you? He’s the one you’d have as a husband, if he were here.”

I’d meant what I said when I told Peeta I’d let him go, wouldn’t tie him to me if we ever made it back to civilization. But I answered truthfully when I told Gale, “I love him.”

He cocked his eyebrows. “He’s young. What? Nineteen, I believe I read?” He held up his hands when my face reddened. “I’m not judging you Katniss! If anyone could understand how adversity makes a person grow up before their time, it’s you and me. And from what I read, you two experienced plenty of that.”

My voice faltered from emotion. “And we left him behind.”

“He gave up everything for you,” Gale replied solemnly. “Everyone believes he’s likely dead.”

When tears flooded my eyes, he rose from the armchair and sat beside me on the sofa. His arm slid around me, and my head came to rest on his shoulder. It was as if I were back in 1814, and we were that boy and girl, running hand-in-hand through the city streets, once again.

My revelation from the previous night prompted me to say, “Peeta’s valuable to C’awa’quu’as. His blacksmithing skills are why he was spared the first time when the rest of the crew were killed. There’s a chance he’d find a way to win back the tyee’s favour.” I was grasping at straws, and from the way Gale’s body stiffened, he knew it as well.

I looked at him, desperation in my eyes. “Can’t you do something? Convince them to send a ship. Just in case he’s still alive?”

“If I could, you know I would. Maybe it could make up for all the things I didn’t do.” He clasped his hands in his lap. “But I haven’t that kind of influence. McAllister and Campbell believe the risk is too great.”

Just then, Henry’s servant interrupted us, saying the Mrs. McAllister was here to see me. I wiped my tears.

Gale touched my cheek. “I’ll leave you two to talk.” He stood to go.

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“I’ll find a bunk in the Bachelors’ Quarters.” He nodded in greeting to the chief factor’s wife and left.

Madeleine McAllister crossed the room and took Gale’s place beside me on the sofa. She was fifty-seven, half-French, half-Cree, and one of the kindest women I’d ever met. She hugged me to her ample bosom. It had been so long since someone had been a mother to me that I closed my eyes and sank into her arms.

She whispered, “What’s wrong? Why is Mr. Hawthorne not staying with you?”

It all came rushing out. I told her everything. I described the devoted love of a young man who had risked his life for me more times than I could count. How I’d fallen in love with him in return. I told her about our struggles and our joys. How we’d saved each other. How broken I was at the thought of his fate. I wasn’t certain how my confession would be received, how my actions would be judged by the first lady of Fort Vancouver, but it didn’t matter anymore.

To my surprise she lifted my chin and said, “I understand, ma chère. More than most.”

I realized the truth of her words— the previously cast-off wife who was now married to another company man a decade younger than herself, and, to everyone’s knowledge, the centre of the chief factor’s universe.

“To be a woman of the fur trade is full of potential pain. It requires great strength to live with such peril. So, to find this kind of love is a rare treasure.”

A treasure that wasn’t mine to keep. But a life too precious to be abandoned.

“How can I live with it, the chance that Peeta’s still alive and I didn’t do anything to help him?”

“The way we all gave up on you,” she whispered with compassion. She grasped both my hands in hers, her eyes peering into mine. “You leave this in my hands. We will see what can be done.”

I half-gasped, half-sobbed, as unexpected hope erupted anew, fluttering in my chest. I threw my arms around her neck and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

 ~~~~~

The next few days were excruciating as I awaited any news. Gale was expected to return to Fort Nisqually soon. He’d heard whispers there were discussions being had, though he wasn’t privy to them. But, less than a week after our talk, Madeleine took me aside, grinned, and told me to not lose hope.

That evening, a message was delivered to Henry’s home as he, Gale, and I visited after dinner. A decision had been made. I was to come for a meeting with McAllister and Campbell the following morning.

Sleep eluded me, and I paced my room all night. There was a chance Peeta could be rescued— I did not allow myself to think of the future beyond that simple reality. My fingers worried the edge of the woven shawl draped over my shoulders until it was as unravelled as my mind. At the first hint of dawn, I began to fix it, weaving it back into place. It was strangely calming, so reminiscent of working with cedar, helping me regain my stability.

I arrived early, but was invited into Mr. McAllister’s office straight away. I expected to see Mr. Campbell, but I was surprised to find Gale was with them as well. It was impossible to sit still. I was vibrating with anxiety, awaiting their verdict.

The chief factor folded his hands on his desk. “I have been persuaded that it would be a grave injustice to not get to the bottom of Mr. Mellark’s fate.”

I sent a silent thank you to Madeleine.

“But it is a dangerous undertaking— sailing into a Native settlement where we are greatly outnumbered, with a chief who has demonstrated ill intent— one I am struggling to sanction.”

My chest seized with panic.

“Therefore, I am insisting on a compromise.”

I dared to breathe.

“We are expecting delivery of a new vessel from England in approximately a month’s time. She’s a schooner— smaller than our usual vessels, not designed for hauling heavy cargo between England and our forts. But with her shallow draft and nimble handling, she’s ideal for navigating the Columbia and the variable conditions of coastal waters for quick trips between our outposts...” He stopped when he realized that I was beside myself, awaiting his decision. “And the right choice for this venture— swift, agile, needing only a small crew.”

I nodded in understanding. Fewer lives at risk.

“When she arrives, I will speak with her captain. All the crew will be volunteer… including the man who has stepped forward to lead this enterprise.”

I didn’t need to be told who he was. Even if both sets of eyes hadn’t settled on Gale, I would have guessed.

“You’re taking me, too.” My announcement was met with silence. “I’m familiar with these people and their ways. I speak the language.” Not nearly as well as Peeta, but I needed to convince them of my worthiness. “I know how they negotiate and the best way to approach the tyee.”

“If I allow you to go, it will only be under the condition that you remain safely out of reach of the Nootka people,” McAllister replied. “We just got you back, Katniss.”

If it was the only way that I’d be permitted to join them, then I was prepared to agree to any of the chief factor’s terms. I’d keep my true intentions to myself.

As we left, I went to McAllister and thanked him again for relenting. He gave me a wry look. “The one you should thank most is Madeleine. But I expect you already know that.” He gave me a warm smile. “I hope we find the answers you’re looking for.”

“Me, too.”

I caught up with Gale outside and hugged him. “Thank you.”

“I owe you. And him, too, for keeping you alive and sending you safely back to us.” He grew serious. “If it can set things right between us...”

I silenced him with a chaste kiss.

Gale returned to his responsibilities at Fort Nisqually, with plans to return in a month’s time.

As the weeks passed, my elation over the rescue plan turned to deeper, darker preoccupations. I planned my own, secret mission with cold precision. I replayed all the scenarios in my head as I lay in bed. I practiced my reaction to any possible outcome I could imagine.

 ~~~~~

A month later, the new schooner arrived and her skipper, Captain Haymitch Abernathy, and the volunteer crew stepped forward. The captain, Gale, and I joined McAllister and Campbell to review the strategy.

It was the first time I’d met Captain Abernathy. I scrutinized him closely as he bragged about the fine attributes of his ship, the skill of his crew. It should’ve made me feel more confident, but something in the sarcastic way he scoffed at McAllister and Campbell whenever they questioned him on an issue of concern made me uneasy. Or maybe it was the sour stench of rum that found its way to my nose. I glanced at Gale, who had remained mostly silent through the introductory discussions. By the sharpness in his eyes and set of his jaw, he shared at least some of my misgivings.

And yet, all of Abernathy’s answers demonstrated an undeniable degree of competence that appeared to satisfy the chief factor and his second in charge.

“The potential for trouble dictates that you act with extreme prudence,” Mr. McAllister said.

“We must isolate the tyee, take him hostage,” I said. “His men will not risk attacking if they believe his life is in jeopardy. And then, you’ll have leverage.”

Abernathy acknowledged me with narrowed, red-rimmed eyes. “And what if they do not produce Mr. Mellark? If he is dead? We are only a handful of men against hundreds armed with the _Tribute’s_ stolen weaponry.”

I stared at him. “Then I’d recommend you keep your ship ready for a quick departure. Have her remain close to the mouth of Nootka Sound. You can set C’awa’quu’as free— he will be the priority for his warriors— and be gone before his war canoes can reach you. Advise your crew to—”

“If you think you’ll be calling the shots on my ship, you’d do well to mind yourself, _Mrs. Hawthorne.”_

I bristled at his tone and the way he spit out my name with such contempt. If he hadn’t been told, he’d deduced my motivation in rescuing Peeta.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Campbell said in a conciliatory voice. “And it is Mr. Hawthorne who is in charge of the negotiations and rescue plan, Captain Abernathy.”

Abernathy slammed his fist down on the desk and bellowed, “Damn these Nootka! Let’s go get this young man.” And with that benediction, he rose from his chair and exchanged a quick but vigorous handshake with the three men. To me he gave a clipped nod, but I didn’t miss the narrow-eyed glower that went with it.

I was glancing up at the Hudson’s Bay Company coat of arms on the wall behind the chief factor when I felt Gale’s hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll walk you back to Henry’s.”

I waited until we were out of earshot of anyone. “I don’t like this captain.”

“Campbell assures me he is well qualified, with years of experience. If he and McAllister trust him, we should, too. Remember, he did volunteer to do this for you.”

For me? The suggestion made me roll my eyes and huff. “I think it’s more about the idea of a ship’s armourer held captive by Natives.” Gale didn’t debate the point. I took his arm to stop him from walking on. “I’m glad you’re the one in charge of the mission, Gale. Right now, you’re the only one I can trust.”

He blew out a deep breath. “But Abernathy is the captain of the ship. We’d be wise to keep that in mind.”

“Especially me,” I muttered.

Gale smirked. “Yes. I think the two of you would be best to stay out of each other’s way.”

 ~~~~~

By the day of departure the following week, my anxiety had built to the near-breaking point. I bid farewell once again to Henry and the children with a heavy heart. But the moment we boarded the ship and prepared to set sail, a cool calm came over me. The time for planning was over. I knew what I needed to do.

Gale stood with me on the deck as we journeyed down the final stretch of the Columbia River, watching the sun sink into the Pacific Ocean. Neither of us spoke until we cleared the treacherous river bar, and the schooner, swift as promised, began cutting a path in the ocean to the north.

“You gave me a bow,” I said. “Henry had the children bring it to my room this morning.”

Gale looked at me. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve become quite proficient with its use.” My lips pressed together in a smile, remembering how Peeta had encouraged me. “I’d considered getting you a new sewing box...” My smile faltered. “It used to make you so happy sewing with Prim.” I bit my lip. “I know it can’t replace…” His voice drifted off, and I turned to him. There was a flash of pain in his eyes.

“It was a thoughtful idea,” I said. “And a practical one. We are nothing if not sensible, you and I.”

A relieved smile softened his face. “Perhaps I’ll give one to you as a wedding gift.”

My throat constricted, and I turned away without responding. I could feel Gale studying me. My fingers tightened their grip on the rail.

“If he’s alive, we’ll get him, Katniss.” He laid a hand on top of mine.

I didn’t look at him. Or smile at his assurances. But I nodded.

_Because, if he’s not…_

I clenched my jaw. One of my hands released the rail, seeking the hilt of the dagger hidden under my cloak in my dress pocket.

After the village attack, Peeta had come away with a new understanding of his father’s favourite Latin saying. The cruelties he’d experienced had turned his original interpretation into something less idealistic.

I conjured up C’awa’quu’as in my mind’s eye. The image became superimposed over the coat of arms in McAllister’s office.

_Pro pelle cutem._

Meanings had changed for me, too.

_A skin for a skin._

My pulse quickened as we picked up speed. I turned my face towards Nootka Sound. The wind was cold and bracing against my skin.

_I’m coming for you._

~~~~~

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Peeta returns to Yuquot as C'awa'quu'as's slave, but one reunion helps ease the hardship of captivity.

 **NOTES:**   Fort Vancouver's "Big House" is an anachronism in this story as it was not built until 1838.

 _Fort Nisqually,_ located south of present-day Seattle, Washington, was established in the spring of 1833.

Chief Factor John McAllister and Chief Trading Officer James Campbell are based on real-life Dr. John McLoughlin and James Douglas (Douglas's mixed race heritage is described in the Notes for Chapter 4). My characterization of Madeleine McAllister, based on Marguerite McLoughlin, and the details of her marriage to John are historically accurate. Dr. McLoughlin (referred to as the "Father of Oregon") left the HBC in 1845 and remained in the Oregon Territory, eventually becoming an American citizen. After the Oregon Treaty of 1846 (which established the division of American and British lands— the present-day American-Canadian border west of the Rocky Mountains), Douglas (considered the "Father of British Columbia") relocated to the new HBC post on the southern tip of Vancouver Island, becoming the Chief Factor of Fort Victoria. In 1858, Sir Douglas (knighted by Queen Victoria in 1863) became the first Governor of the Colony of British Columbia.

McAllister's reference to other trading ships meeting with peril is also historical. Marguerite's first husband, shortly after ending their country marriage and leaving her and their three daughters at Fort William (near present-day Thunder Bay, Ontario), perished in 1811 in an incident similar to what happened to John Jewitt and the _Boston_ in 1803 _._ This time, it was the powerful Tla-o-qui-aht chief, Wickaninnish of Clayoquot Sound, who instigated the attack on the _Tonquin,_  owned by John Jacob Astor's Pacific Fur Company, perhaps mimicking rival Maquinna.

 

 _The HBC and marriage traditions:_   Fur trade marriages evolved over time, and the stories of these partnerships range from tragic to heart-warming— the McLoughlin and Douglas marriages are lovely examples of the latter: _country marriages_ between company men and the Métis women they loved that endured a lifetime.

Country marriages ( _à la façon du pays)_ were typically seen as a temporary relationship. In the early years, the term  _Turning Off_ was used to describe the practice of ending the partnerships when men were reassigned or planned to return home. The women— all of whom were First Nations or mixed race— who still had strong connections with their Native communities had the option of returning to the villages. But for many— the mixed-blood daughters who'd spent their entire lives within the forts— that option wasn't available (if abandoned or widowed). Without a husband to support her, she could be left without a home or means of support. Some fell into destitution or resorted to prostitution.   
  
The more concerned men would try to find a new arrival who would be willing to replace him in the role of husband and sponsor. If the wife, the out-going husband, and new man could come to an agreement, often the first husband would hand over a dowry as compensation for the woman's care as well as any children involved. Country wives were important partners, providing companionship and practical support to men unfamiliar with frontier life.  
  
Eventually, stricter rules came into play. In 1821, a resolution was made by HBC leadership to address the issue. Later incorporated into the company's _Standing Rules and Regulations,_ it dictated that provisions be made for supporting their families when men departed service (the _mandate_ that Gale refers to). It was difficult to enforce, and often ignored. An unintended consequence was that some men delayed entering longer-term partnerships for which they would be financially liable, and instead they engaged women as prostitutes, which exacerbated social problems, placing women and the resulting children at risk. Suicide and infanticide were tragic occurrences.

By 1824, marriage contracts were introduced to further formalize the unions. With the HBC vested with virtual governmental power in the districts, higher-ranking officers were given the authority equivalent to a Justice of the Peace to issue the marriage contracts. In the frontier, it was the closest to legal civil marriage as was available. James Douglas, appointed to Fort Vancouver in 1830, was the designated JP for the fort. While the contracts were intended to be life-long commitments, it was not uncommon for contracts to be cancelled due to the realities of fur trade life. 

Clergy were eventually assigned to the forts to perform religious rites, however, the first clergy did not arrive at Ft. Vancouver until 1836. The first chaplain was not popular, and Dr. McLoughlin declined to have his marriage to Marguerite formally solemnized by the priggish Reverend Herbert Beaver. The chief factor took his country marriage commitment seriously, though he did allow JP-designate Douglas to perform the company's civil ceremony, which McLoughlin believed was more than sufficient.

Reverend Beaver incurred McLoughlin's wrath when (likely insulted by McLoughlin's dismissiveness) he reported to company leadership about what he described as the immoral example being set by the chief factor "living in sin" with his "mistress," disparaging Marguerite's character in particular. When McLoughlin heard about the report, his famous temper flared— he attacked the chaplain, beating him with a cane. He might have killed the sanctimonious chaplain if Douglas had not intervened. Rev. Beaver did not remain long at Fort Vancouver.

Gale and Katniss would have married under the original, less formal tradition:  _à la façon du pays,_  as they married in 1821.

 

 _The Columbia River Bar_  is a notorious component of the shipwreck "Graveyard of Pacific" that stretches from south of the mouth of the Columbia River to the northern end of Vancouver Island. Two HBC ships, the _William and Ann_ and the _Isabella_ were among the casualties of the river bar.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

**Peeta**

Out of the blackness, the steady rhythm of paddles and men’s chanting voices reverberated in my brain, but when I tried to move, blinding pain in my leg sent me spiralling back down into the dark.

I resurfaced when they lifted me from the canoe and carried me into the longhouse, but the jostling caused me to slip into the void once again.

The next time I came to, lying on a hard platform, I cried out in agony when my leg was handled and manipulated.

Oblivion was my merciful reward. There were no dreams. I had no awareness of time passing. The most pressing need that greeted me as I drifted back to consciousness was terrible thirst. I ran a dry tongue over cracked lips. My eyes— crusted over from old tears— stayed closed out of fear of what awaited me beyond my eyelids.

A sensation of drowning startled me fully awake, my heart racing in panic. Water poured over my face and inside my mouth, choking me as it ran down my throat. I sputtered and coughed and, despite my thirst, brought my hand up to shield myself from further deluge.

Fingers brushed my face, wiping the water away. They were gentle, and, for a bleary moment, I thought of Katniss. But when I grasped them, they belonged to a small hand.

I pried open my eyes a crack. Dim firelight flickered behind a silhouette. I blinked to clear the fuzziness in my vision. A pair of big, dark eyes peered down at me. I squinted and saw a familiar face flanked by two black braids. Tanakmis. A tiny flutter of happiness found its way into my aching chest.

She brought a clamshell of water to my mouth, and this time I lifted my head a bit and was able to drink it without gagging.

“More.” My voice came out as a raspy whisper.

Sucking in a breath, I went to sit up, but a stabbing pain ran up my leg, robbing me of the ability to breathe. The punishment C’awa’quu’as had inflicted on me rushed through my body anew. I fell back, staring at the ceiling, and fought to calm my breathing.

I tried again to rise, but this time I moved my arms to my sides and carefully used them to lift myself onto my elbows. Tanakmis slipped a stick-like arm under my neck to help. I drank two more shell’s worth of water.

With my upper body propped up a little, I lifted the blanket to examine my injury. My left trouser leg had been sliced open to above my knee. The entire limb was immobilized on the sides by a splint made from long wooden branches tied securely in place by cedar rope. My leg looked straight enough, but it was badly bruised and swollen from what I knew must be a broken shin bone. I still wore my shirt, but my capote coat had been removed, bundled up, and placed under my knee to cushion my leg.

My head started to swim, and I had to lie down. It would be a while before I was mobile again.

I turned to Tanakmis. “Where’s your mother?” Her eyes never left mine as she shook her head. “The rest of your village?” Her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. “Who looks after you?” I asked with growing concern. At this, she lifted her chin and crossed her arms in front of her chest, but she didn’t speak. That’s when I noticed how unkempt her dress was, her fingernails dark from digging in the dirt. “What do you eat?”

She darted to the opposite side of the compartment. A scrap of cedar matting lay in the dirt along with a few possessions, including a small blanket. She brought back a little bundle— a piece of cedar cloth— and unwrapped some dried shellfish and a few roots. She held it out to me, but I laid my hand over hers.

“No. You keep it.”

She scrunched up her face, looking hurt, so I shared a small piece of shellfish with her.

While she tucked the remainder of her food away, I eased myself up again and looked around. I was back in my old chamber, but a glance around the longhouse revealed that there were far fewer people occupying the tyee’s residence than before. It was late and most were already asleep.

Tanakmis returned to my side.

“Get your blanket.” There was no way I was going to let her sleep in the dirt.

She did as I asked and stood beside my bunk, clutching the blanket in her arms. I patted the space between me and the wall, and she hopped over me without hesitation, mindful of my leg. She nestled close to my side and fell asleep almost instantly.

I smoothed the hair from her face. We were both alone. Two survivors with no one else anymore.

The next morning, her blanket was folded beside me, and Tanakmis was gone. She’d left a cedar box filled with water within reach, and her bundle of food lay on top of the blanket. The longhouse was empty. It was the beginning of herring season, so this didn’t come as a surprise.

Laid up and with nothing to do, the hours dragged. Still weak, I slept some. Images of Katniss, safe and reunited with her beloved nieces and nephews in Fort Vancouver, brought me some solace.

Late in the afternoon, my little companion came back with a small basket of herring as well as some kindling. Happy to see her, my greeting was quite cheery despite my condition. She grinned back, showing the gap where two milk teeth were missing, and began to arrange the sticks in our firepit.

“You know how to build a fire?” I asked. Tanakmis made a face at me as if it were the most absurd question in the world. It filled me with unexpected pride.

We ate— me leaning against the outer wall, and her sitting cross-legged on the bed facing me.

“Thank you, Tanakmis.” She flashed a scowl at me. I guess she still didn’t like being called a mosquito. I quirked my eyebrows at her. “If you won’t tell me your real name, what else am I to call you?”

She licked her fingers clean and fluttered her arms in the air.

Oh, yes— our old game.

After several guesses— butterfly, duck, goose— she beat her arms more vigorously and made a buzzing noise.

 _“Aasats?”_ A bee. She shook her head and gave an exasperated huff. I shrugged my shoulders. “I give up.” She whispered a word, the first she’d spoken since our reunion.

It sounded a little like _Susan,_ but that couldn’t be right.

“Saasin,” she said a little louder.

I experienced the first rush of pure joy since my recapture— it burst out of me in jocund laughter. She wrinkled her nose at me, not amused.

“Of course you are.” Smiling, I reached my hand up to her face and gave her chin a gentle pinch. _Saasin_ meant hummingbird. _“Saasin’ana.”_ My _little hummingbird._ I pointed at myself. “Peeta.” She repeated it, and then, mollified, she grinned back.

Our introductions were interrupted by one of C’awa’quu’as’s wives, who entered our compartment bearing a wooden bowl. She placed it on the ground and retreated to the hall. Saasin jumped off the bunk and inspected the bowl to see what was inside. The way her eyes flashed and her tongue darted out to lick her lips, I deduced it was food.

My eyes searched the people eating around the central fire, discovering the tyee staring back at me. His expression was difficult to read, but he gave a slight nod, and then he turned his attention away from me and back to his family.

In my indisposed state, it was a relief to know Saasin wouldn’t be saddled with the entire burden of feeding us, but it didn’t reduce my anxiety. I understood the tyee well enough to know this wasn’t simple kindness— it was wasteful to allow a valuable slave to starve to death, especially after going to so much trouble to tend my injuries.

My head fell back against the plank wall. It was strange trying to reconcile the idea of my captor as both the inflictor of pain and my benefactor. Sighing, I figured I’d have plenty of time to sort out that conundrum.

Soon, the boredom of my convalescence became as equally unpleasant as the discomfort of my broken leg. On the third evening, I invented a game whereby I taught Saasin some English words. I’d quiz her— giving a Mowachaht term to translate. When she guessed correctly, I tossed her a piece of yama cake. She added a new challenge by trying to catch it in her mouth. We both cheered when she succeeded.

It was easier to forget about my leg, watching her delight, and it was so engrossing that I was slow to notice a shadow filling the entrance to our chamber. Saasin was giggling, but when the smile vanished from my face, her eyes grew wide with alarm. She whipped around and, seeing the cause, scooted back against the wall beside me.

C’awa’quu’as stared down on both of us.

“Go fetch some water,” I whispered to Saasin. Keeping her eyes fixed on the tyee, she crawled off the bunk and grabbed the cedar box. She slipped past him, keeping as much distance as she could. He watched her go and then turned back to face me.

When he stepped closer, I recoiled out of reflex, my stomach clenching in fear. I wasn’t sure what he expected of me. A demonstration of unflinching servitude? Or a show of strength he could respect? My apprehension made it difficult to think straight. I settled on the one thing that had saved my life in the past— proving my usefulness.

I eased my body over to the side of the bunk, not sure what I was intending to do. Certainly not stand, but maybe sit up properly— something to show him my willingness and ability to do something besides lying about. But he leaned forward and rested his hand on my shoulder, preventing me from shifting the foot of my splinted leg to the floor.

He shook his head. “No. Not yet. Not without help.”

I shifted back against the wall again, keeping a wary eye on him. He may have stopped me from further injury, but it was impossible not to feel insecure in my hobbled condition.

“I’m not of much value to you if I can’t work at my forge.”

He made a small, dismissive gesture with his hand. “In time.” After inspecting my leg and instructing me to move my toes, he said, “I will send slaves to help you— carry you outside when needed.”

I wasn’t aware of how tightly strung my body was until he left. The tension released its grip on my chest, and I was able to breath again.

It felt good to get outside again for brief periods, but, even with two men supporting me, the effort and pain left me dizzy and exhausted. For the most part, I was left alone. Though it was futile to dwell on Katniss, she filled the long hours. I blocked out any thoughts about her reunion with Gale. Instead, I allowed the faint hope that when she shared our story, a ship might come for me.

But mostly I relived our time together. When awake, I imagined her preparing meals at our little fire in the longhouse, sewing by its faint light, and giving me the capote coat for my birthday. My dreams were filled with memories from the hot springs— the first time we’d made love, sitting huddled together in the home I’d built for her as we watched the rain. Hearing her say she loved me. So many moments— I clung to each and every one of them. They were all I had left of her.

A fortnight after my return to the village, C’awa’quu’as paid me another visit. Most of the occupants of the longhouse, including Saasin, had left for the day. I scooted back, leaning against the wall. He sat on the end of the bed, regarding me in pensive silence.

“How is your leg?” He could be a masterful manipulator, but the concern in his voice sounded genuine.

I answered with wary neutrality. “It’s bearable. The hours with nothing to do are just as hard.”

He patted my good leg. “Soon.”

His solicitous act compelled me to respond in kind. “Thank you, Tyee, for the food.”

“You have no woman to gather and cook for you.”

Apparently, Saasin and her help didn’t warrant his consideration. But I thought it best to not bring her into the conversation. Perhaps the more invisible she was, the better.

I wasn’t prepared for the tyee’s next declaration. “I will give you a new wife. A better wife. One who will stay.”

The imperious tone with which he spoke made it clear. This wasn’t a gift he was offering— it was an order. Another way to bind me to these people. But the thought of replacing Katniss was unimaginable to me.

While I searched for some way to refuse, his stern countenance vanished, and the corner of his mouth ticked up into a wry smile. “I knew Katniss was not really your wife.”

His words took me by surprise. “How did…?” He gave me a telling look. “Oh.” There weren’t many secrets in the longhouse. Our marriage had been a charade while we lived amongst the Mowachaht.

He added, “You forget that we have dealt with your people for a long time. A woman on a ship? She might belong to the captain. But not a blacksmith.”

I felt ashamed, realizing how easy it was to let his primitive appearance make me forget what a sophisticated man he was.

“Why did you let me believe you did?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he continued to smile. “There is leverage to be had with a man who has something to lose. Your feelings for her— I saw it in your eyes from the first, heard it in your voice. It served my purpose.”

I remembered how I’d begged for Katniss’s life that first day and his threat to sell her a year later to ensure my loyalty. It had worked. “But now?”

The intimidating tyee replaced the congenial one. It was difficult for me to keep abreast of his mercurial changes. “You made your pledge. I chose to accept that it is the word of a man of honour.” And just as quickly, his expression softened again. “It’s for the best that Katniss is gone. You wished for her to go home.” Then he added, “She wasn’t yours anyway.”

The truth of his words, coupled with the likely reality that I’d never see Katniss again, hit me almost as hard as the tyee’s war club. This blow left an open wound in my heart.

I swallowed my anguish. “I don’t wish to marry, tyee. I promised I’d serve you. If you give me a wife, my loyalties would be divided, just as they were with Katniss. You have no further need of leverage with me.”

He rubbed his chin, considering my flimsy claim— a Mowachaht wife’s primary commitment would be to her king, not to me, a mere slave— before answering.

“When I found you, I was returning from visiting the Tla-o-qui-aht— the village of the great chief to the south and my greatest rival. I was no longer preeminent tyee at the feast— it had become my place to show respect for his strength. But fate brought you back to me. Perhaps _Quahootze_ is looking on me with favour again.”

His candour, admitting his loss of status, confused me.

“Therefore, I choose to look on you with favour as well. You will be more content if you have a helpmate—”

“Then let Saasin help me.”

He seemed fascinated by my request as he studied me. “Why would you want such a small child to tend to you? She is of little worth.”

He mustn’t have been paying very close attention to that little girl. Saasin had been doing quite well despite her size and age without anyone’s help.

“Katniss and I grew fond of her. She may be small, but she’s resourceful and strong.” Another persuasive idea came to mind. “Saasin is like me, with no people of her own left. She has no one to protect her but me. That will make her loyal. The same way I am to you for your protection.”

C’awa’quu’as smirked at my logic.

“Very well. A slave for a slave.” He grinned as if the idea amused him. “She is yours.” A hint of hardness darkened his eyes. “So long as you serve me well as my slave.”

I was satisfied and relieved that we had a deal.

It was only after he left when it occurred to me that his threat of forced marriage was a ploy. He already suspected my attachment to Saasin, and I’d confirmed it. He’d let me believe I’d won a concession he’d already decided to allow. By giving her to me, he had me back in a similar position as before.

And it had cost him nothing.

Behind the overtures of kindness, the tyee was as shrewd as ever. If he had any doubt about my will to live, or concern that I might try to escape again, he now had a new point of leverage. So long as I obeyed him, Saasin would be safe.

 ~~~~~

In time, I was able to get around on my own with crutches. Even with the support of the splint, it was impossible to remain on my feet for long before the ache in my leg exhausted me. But the tedium of my convalescence made me restless to get back to work.

One day, the tyee made a pronouncement. “You are one of us from now on.”

I was to give up all remaining pretense of my foreign heritage. My renewed pledge to conform myself to life among his people must be irrefutable.

Allowed to only wear cedar cloth, I surrendered my European clothing but begged to keep my capote coat. The tyee won my gratitude when he agreed. He ordered me to decorate my face and body in the black paint like the other men. I tied my hair back in the high knot at the back of my head, along with a bit of evergreen, as was the Mowachaht custom.

C’awa’quu’as pursed his lips as he inspected my handiwork. Only the tyee adorned his hair in white eagle down. Though he said nothing, I could tell my blond hair was an affront. In deference to him, I smeared charcoal over my hair. He was pleased with my voluntary act of respect.

The small flicker of hope I’d harboured for rescue grew dim along with my physical transformation. Katniss drifted further from me as surely as my own identity as an Englishman faded. Happy memories were replaced by doubts over what we had shared. The tyee was right. Once free, she wouldn’t have been mine anyway.

I was forced to accept that this was my life now.

 ~~~~~

Increasingly, until it became a daily ritual, C’awa’quu’as engaged me in conversations. He shared his concerns for his people and the challenges as their leader. He inquired about my life back in England, even expressing his regret that I would never see my family again.

At first it was unsettling. I’d lie sleepless on my bed, a small voice in the back of my mind asking the question— Why? Why was he so willing to take me into his confidence, to reveal his fears and vulnerabilities?

I was certain his openness and polite interest in my opinion was a way of testing me. But I grew used to this new dynamic, which led me to become more open with him as well. I began to enjoy our discussions, to feel empathy for the burdens he carried. If I didn’t remind myself that I was still his prisoner, I could’ve believed he saw me as a friend. My qualms faded until they vanished altogether.

 ~~~~~

At the beginning of April, my splint was removed, and I endeavoured to get around without the crutches a little more each day. My leg was stiff and weak from lack of use, and the muscles still pained me, but I was anxious to regain the strength and flexibility I’d lost.

It was good to be productive again. I limped about, working at my forge. The piece of iron in the coals began to glow red. Staring at it, I rubbed the soreness in my shin. The brutality of working metal— the heating, the hammering— made it stronger than before. Maybe the same could be said for me.

One afternoon during our daily conversation, C’awa’quu’as discussed how the meeting of our two cultures had changed life for his people. He described how his predecessors had welcomed trading ships, fostering the exchange of goods, how all the surrounding tribes had benefitted from the alliances as the tyees facilitated access between them and the ships.

C’awa’quu’as’s demeanour darkened— his eyes grew hard as he stared out to sea, his mouth twisted into a bitter scowl.

“But it has brought much suffering too,” he said. “Not all of your people have traded with respect.”

He shared a long list of grievances perpetrated by European traders over the years— theft, murder, disregard for their sovereign possession of the land and its resources— during which time Mowachaht leaders, including himself, had responded with great restraint. Deadly diseases brought by the ships had taken a woeful toll prior to the arrival of the measles. The stories painted a shameful tableau of abuses against his people.

It made me consider the brutal attack on my ship’s crew in a new and disturbing light. The image of those severed heads stitched into a broader tapestry of tragedy. Would there ever be an end to this cycle of violence?

“I’m sorry, Tyee.”

The scowl disappeared, but the deep lines of weariness creasing his face remained.

After sitting in pensive silence awhile, he took the war club I’d made for him out from under his cloak and admired it. Seeing the weapon always sent a reflexive shudder through me. He noted my reaction and laid a hand on my shoulder. The smile he gave me was warm and almost... jovial.

“Soon it will be time to hunt whales. My metal harpoon will bring success.”

I blushed a little at his praise, pleased that he took such pride in my work. It brought a question to mind.

“Do you wish we had never come to your shore, Tyee?”

He frowned, considering my question. After a moment of rumination, his expression became stoic. “The past cannot be changed.”

He turned to gaze over the village as the remnant of his people went about their chores.

“These are the beginnings of dark days for my people, Peeta. We are dying from disease. More die as the tribes turn on each other, competing for control of the land and trade. No tyee leads alone. Only a broad alliance of chiefs, united under a strong leader, will sustain stability and prosperity.”

A shiver ran up my spine as I recalled the fate of Saasin’s village. Reaching down to rub the spasm of pain in my leg, I said, “You reward the ones who demonstrate their allegiance. And you dominate and punish those who would resist you.”

Though I said it with no intended disrespect in my voice, it was an impertinent observation for me to make. But I’d grown comfortable with the blunt and candid rapport we now shared.

He peered into my eyes and answered with a question. “Do you serve me out of fear or out of devotion for my generosity?”

The idea left me perplexed. I’d stopped thinking about the reasons, only that he was my tyee. It wasn’t my place to question his wisdom or condemn his choices.

He turned away when I failed to answer, his broad chest expanding as he sucked in a deep breath. When he released it, his shoulders slumped as if under an invisible weight. His eyes grew clouded. “It is not my desire to wage war. I grow weary of the burden. But I will lead as long as I am able.”

I said with sincerity, “You are still strong. The chiefs, the villagers, they respect and look to you for their well-being.” _Including me._

A gloominess filled the air when he responded. “Even the greatest tyee lacks the power to stop what is inevitable. It may be futile, but I am willing to do what is necessary. I will continue to fight for the sake of my people... to the death.”

Was it the fatalism in his vow or the breeze blowing off the ocean that sent a chill through me? I hugged myself, reminded again of the strange, precarious, grey zone I occupied in the village.

C’awa’quu’as read my thoughts. “You have nothing to fear so long as I live.”

I dropped my gaze and nodded. He was the only one who stood between life and death.

“I hope you will speak well of me when they come for you.”

His words struck me dumb, both by his certainty that a ship would return and by his admission of need for me as his advocate. I’d come to believe that the tyee would rather see me dead than liberated.

The unexpected revelations coalesced into thoughts of Katniss. She may have loved me, and I knew she would want me rescued, but I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. It was impossible. Not only would her influence be negligible over such decisions, but the story of what happened to the _Tribute_ would serve as a warning, deterring any ship from entering these waters, especially for someone as unimportant as a blacksmith. On top of that, after all this time without a ship, it was more probable that she, along with everyone else, believed I was dead.

“No one is coming for me, Tyee.”

He gave me a quizzical look. I couldn’t allow myself to consider the possibility of ever leaving this place. Or of seeing Katniss again. To reopen that wound— it was too hard.

Despite my assertions to C’awa’quu’as and to myself, when evening came I limped out to the ridge overlooking the ocean and sat down to watch as the sun dipped low the way Katniss and I had done so many times in the past. She was never far from my mind, though I’d learned to keep thoughts of her tucked safely away. But tonight I pretended she was back with me, sharing this ritual once again. I closed my eyes, lifted my face to the sky to be bathed in its fiery glow. For a brief moment I gave myself permission to imagine a ship sailing into Nootka Sound.

And then I let it go.

There was a rustling of grass beside me. I opened my eyes to discover Saasin had joined me. Her mouth turned down with worry when she saw my melancholy demeanour. I wiped the dampness from my eyes and put an arm around her little shoulders.

“It’s all right,” I told her.

She snuggled close. Maybe we would be all right. Like the tyee guarding his people, I could look out for her as long as I was able. We watched the sun sink into the ocean together.

~~~~~ 

It was late in the afternoon the following day when the air grew heavy with humidity. It promised rain or maybe a storm heading our way. I laid down my hammer and wiped the sweat from my brow. My hand came away smudged with black paint from the geometric designs adorning my face. I rubbed my hand across my mantle to clean it off, but sighed at how it stubbornly adhered to my skin.

It was almost time to head inside for dinner. I used my tongs to dip the red hot dagger into the water to finish my work for the day, when women’s cries made me look up.

Villagers poured out of the longhouses or left their work to see what was the emergency. Several women came running from the beach, pointing out to sea. I shielded my eyes from the sun’s glare filtering through the thin clouds.

It didn’t register at first what I was seeing. Then the message entering my eyes finally reached my brain— a sailing ship coming around the southern point of Nootka Sound. I held my breath, waiting to see if they were continuing past. When the vessel turned into the sound, I was paralyzed, unsure what to do. My heart pounded in fear. Villagers rushed past me to the beach, calling out in alarm. But I remained beside my forge.

C’awa’quu’as emerged from his house, his long legs striding to the ridge. The chiefs gathered about him, watching the schooner drop anchor close to the entrance of the sound rather than proceed into the calmer waters of Friendly Cove.

The ship’s crew took no further action, silently daring us to make the first move. The moist air became oppressive as everyone awaited C’awa’quu’as’s direction.

The tyee gave an order, turned away from the beach, and marched back to his longhouse, the chiefs close behind him. On the way, he passed by my forge. He stopped, turned to face me, and then commanded me to follow. Once inside, I was told to remain in my compartment.

The chiefs sat in a semicircle in front of the tyee to discuss the situation. The women of our longhouse fussed around the central fire under the guise of resuming their preparations for the evening meal, but little work was being done. They kept their heads down, speaking only in whispers as they furtively observed the men.

Saasin came running in from collecting roots. We sat on the bunk, silently listening as the chiefs held council. Their voices were a low rumble as they debated the best course of action, but, by straining to hear what they said, I was able to make out the key points.

The desire to negotiate for restored trade was expressed. It must be their visitors’ intention, one man argued— what other reason could there be to send one small, defenceless ship? The fate of the _Tribute_ was likely no longer a mystery. It was suggested that if the matter of a white man amongst them came up, I should be hidden, my existence denied. A few recommended a simpler plan— that I be put to death. Others insisted it was too late for negotiations, that they should seize this ship as well. They held the superior numbers and force. C’awa’quu’as listened, dispassionate and unreadable, as his chiefs expressed their ideas.

“What’s going to happen?” Saasin asked in a small voice.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

They debated for nearly a half hour. My guts twisted in anxiety as they argued matters of life and death. When the tyee rose to his feet, everyone watched in expectation, but no one more than me. I swallowed as he addressed his chiefs.

“I will go meet this ship, speak with the captain.” The chiefs argued vehemently against it, advising that it was too dangerous, but his word was final.

When he approached me, I could barely breathe. “You will stay inside until it is time.”

“The chiefs are right, Tyee. If you go aboard this ship, you will put yourself in danger. Send others in your place to negotiate.”

C’awa’quu’as lifted his head, his expression somber. “A tyee who hides behind his people is unworthy to lead.” He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We are many, and they are few.”

He embraced Yaqtsin’iq, his queen, and she and the other wives and the children cried in distress as he took his leave. He gave one last look around and left the longhouse— defiant, noble, and resigned to his fate.

How could I not worry? By placing himself in jeopardy, the tyee was sealing my fate as well. There was no way I could envision an outcome that did not bring death— to the crew aboard the ship and to men of our village. What was to be gained by this madness?

Saasin and I huddled together, waiting. The entrance to the longhouse was guarded. There was no escape. The food prepared for our dinner went untouched, but I insisted Saasin eat a little of our dried fish and yama cake. Time dragged at a painful rate with no sense of what was taking place outside. My leg wasn’t aching, but I rubbed my shin anyway to stop my hand from shaking.

The silence was broken by shouting. The voices grew louder as they came closer to the longhouse— animated, laced with panic— and I knew something terrible had happened to the tyee.

They were coming to kill me.

I grabbed Saasin by the shoulders and brought my face close. “Run. Hide somewhere.” I thrust a blanket into her hands. “Use this.” She blinked at me, hesitating. Whatever they were going to do to me, I didn’t want her to see it. “Now!” I hissed, and she leapt up from the bunk and sped away into a dark corner of the longhouse.

What would happen to her when I was gone? There was nothing more I could do for her. _She’s smart and strong, a survivor,_ I consoled myself.

Would death come from the fatal blow of a tomahawk to my head, finishing what they’d failed to do the first time? Or would it be a knife slitting my throat? I clenched my jaw. Probably a war club would strike me down.

_Please make it quick._

I was hauled to my feet by grim-faced, wild-eyed men. I was confused as they dragged me outside. They were taking me to the beach where more men waited. I could hear panicked shouts echoing across the water from the ship.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “What’s happened to the tyee?”

I dug my heels into the sand, fighting them as they led me to a canoe. I yelled at them to let me stay, but they tossed me in. Death awaited on that ship. I remembered the blood, C’awa’quu’as forcing me to stand in witness of the severed heads of my crewmates. I didn’t want to go through that again. Wasn’t killing me enough?

“Peeta!” Saasin’s plaintive cry cut through my living nightmare.

I twisted to look over my shoulder as the men restrained me and saw her running down the beach. My heart was crushed, but there was nothing I could do to get her to go back, so I yanked an arm free and reached out to her. She leapt into the canoe and threw her arms around my neck. I hugged her close as the men pushed off from shore.

Saasin didn’t cry, but she was trembling.

“It’s all right. It’ll be all right,” I kept repeating in a soothing voice, though I knew I could make no such promise.

The canoe came alongside the ship, and I was forced up the ladder. Warriors from above hauled me up and roughly tossed me to the deck. My left leg took the brunt of it, and I grimaced in pain. Hands grabbed my arms, holding me down.

Fighting to breathe, I looked up and saw sailors and Mowachaht warriors, armed with muskets, pistols, tomahawks, war clubs, and daggers, ready to attack each other. No one was moving, but there were shouted demands and calls for restraint. I was in the midst of a standoff.

That’s when my eyes settled on the tyee. He was on his knees, wrists and ankles in iron shackles. Someone was behind him, concealed in the shadow cast by his large frame. But it was the glint of a dagger blade— the point pricking the flesh under his chin as his head was yanked back by the hair— that made my chest seize in terror. With the glaring sun behind me, low on the horizon, shining in his eyes, the tyee squinted at me. He did not flinch. He almost looked calm.

I broke from the hands restraining me and charged across the deck to go to his aid. Whoever held the tyee tensed their grip on his hair, yelling a warning in a surprisingly high, shrill voice. I grabbed for the dagger, fighting to wrest it free from the person holding it, when I heard a man’s voice yell out.

“Katniss! It’s him! He’s here!”

_Katniss?_

My focus was drawn from the tyee, starting at the hand wielding the blade, travelling up the arm attached to it, ending at the attacker’s body, mostly hidden behind C’awa’quu’as. She was wearing a dark blue dress. My eyes moved up to her face— twisted into feral rage. There was a moment of disbelief in her expression as she scanned the painted man with the blackened hair, wearing the cedar mantle, who crouched before her.

But then her eyes locked onto mine. Her mouth gaped open as recognition took root.

“Peeta?” Her voice came out a bewildered whisper.

Her white-knuckle grip on the dagger eased, and she let go of the tyee’s hair. I pulled the weapon from her hand and tossed it across the deck, out of reach. She crumbled back onto her heels, her arms dropping to her sides.

A furious voice bellowed from behind me, “Get that fucking woman off my deck! Now!”

A tall, dark-haired man— not a sailor, judging from his attire— swooped in to drag Katniss away.

I whipped around, placing myself between the tyee and the muskets pointed at him. C’awa’quu’as’s warriors stood at the ready to retaliate.

“No one needs to get hurt here. We just want the boy.” It was the angry voice from before, but more controlled this time. It belonged to the captain.

Nobody moved, so I turned back to the tyee, my hands grappling with his shackles.

“Take them off!” I yelled over my shoulder.

The captain, a scowling man cursing under his breath, rushed forward with keys. The shackles clattered to the deck, and I kicked them away in outrage.

I examined the tyee to ensure he was unhurt. He laid a hand on my arm. “Wocash, Peeta. Wocash.” _Well done._

We rose to our feet. C’awa’quu’as signalled to his men to lower their weapons.

When the captain didn’t follow suit, I entreated, “Let them go. Please, just leave them in peace.”

The captain called out, “Do as the boy says. Let ‘um leave.”

The tyee stepped past me and crossed to his men by the ladder.

Suddenly, I panicked. Saasin! I couldn’t leave her behind, not again. Unable to see her, I called her name, and she cried out to me from the canoe. The tyee nodded his head, and she was allowed to climb up to the deck. I knelt down as she squeezed between the men and ran into my arms.

I looked at C’awa’quu’as and mouthed, “Thank you.”

He gave a regal tip of his head. Our eyes locked for a few seconds— I felt a rush of happiness at the warmth in his smile but also sadness at parting with him— and then he was gone. The rest of the warriors on the deck followed him down the ladder, and the canoes paddled away.

The captain’s barked commands set the crew scrambling into a flurry of activity, and the ship made ready for departure. No one paid any attention to Saasin and me, huddled together near the main mast. No canoes pursued us. We watched as the Mowachaht village, Friendly Cove, and Nootka Sound fell away.

Saasin lifted her face to mine, searching my eyes, and I said, “We’re safe now,” as much to convince myself as her. She nodded bravely, and I tried to make sense of the astonishing turn of events.

_They came for me… Katniss came for me..._

Katniss! She was here on the ship. Where was she? An urgent need to search the vessel for her, to touch her face, to lose myself in her embrace, to convince myself this wasn’t all a cruel dream, brought me to my feet. Just then, the captain came forward.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

Holding Saasin’s hand, I followed him down the steep steps that led into the galley and down a narrow passageway to the stern of the ship. My eyes darted, fore and aft, wondering where Katniss was hiding. We passed two doors— one on either side, officer’s cabins likely— before entering the captain’s quarters spanning the rear of the ship.

The space was small but included a desk and a cabinet, from which he took out a bottle. The captain made little attempt to conceal his fury as he slammed the bottle down on his deck and uncorked it. It was likely a bad time to bring up Katniss’s name, but the degree of my longing made me willing to risk his further ire. He turned to face me, and I was about to request that he take me to her, when his eyes darted over my shoulder.

“Ah, splendid. Glad you could join us, Mr. Hawthorne.” His voice dripped in sarcasm.

Hearing his name felt like an ice-cold wave crashing over my head. I turned to the entranceway, recognizing the man who’d grabbed Katniss after I’d disarmed her.

Gale Hawthorne. Katniss’s husband.

I stepped aside to make room as he entered the cabin. He was taller than me, handsome and distinguished. Gale’s eyes met mine for a fleeting second, sending a shot of jealousy through me. I wanted to hate him, but a voice in my head taunted— _She’s not yours_ — leaving me heartsick and conflicted from guilt.

It made me grateful for the black paint covering my face, helping to disguise my emotions.

The captain took three glasses from the cupboard and set them on the desk. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “I’m Haymitch Abernathy, captain of this vessel.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “And the gentleman beside you is the leader of this embarrassment of a mission that almost got us all killed!” His voice grew angrier with each word.

Gale looked contrite, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry, Captain. I truly had no idea Katniss had any such intentions. But we accomplished what we set out to do, and no one was hurt.”

Abernathy snorted and shot Gale an exasperated look. “No thanks to _her,”_ he spit out.

Gale placated the captain, telling him that Katniss was in her cabin. I tucked that bit of information away. Abernathy muttered under his breath and poured himself a drink. He offered one to Gale who waved it off, and then turned to me.

“I’m sure you could use one after the day you’ve had.”

I nodded and accepted the glass he handed me. I watched him down the contents in one gulp, and I followed his lead, letting the rum burn my throat. It felt good.

His face red with vexation, Abernathy stabbed his finger at Gale. “You keep that damned woman in her quarters, Hawthorne. After that stunt she pulled today, I swear if I so much as see her face for the rest of this trip, I won’t be responsible!”

Gale quirked an eyebrow. “It’s a small ship,” he replied, but Abernathy didn’t want to hear it.

Bringing his face within inches of Gale’s, he warned, “I’ll pitch her arse overboard without a second’s hesitation.” Both Gale and I flinched.

“I’ll make sure she stays out of your way,” Gale assured him.

I’d spent enough time on ships to understand the need for discipline and order. But hearing these men talk about Katniss like this— as something that needed to be confined—after all she’d endured was deplorable. They may as well clip an eagle’s wings and place it in a cage. I knew her heart. Whatever she’d done, she’d done it for my sake. And to have the appointed jailor for her crime be her husband left me feeling ill.

Abernathy poured and downed a second glass of rum. He offered me another, which I declined. His eyes dropped to Saasin, half-hidden beside me, squished up against the wall. He frowned. “I wasn’t expecting this one joining us. We had a berth saved for you up front with the crew, but it’s not fit for the little one.”

“I’ll take care of getting Mr. Mellark and the child settled in more appropriate accommodations,” Gale answered.

Abernathy scrutinized me head to toe. “And do something about...” He waved his hand at my face and scowled, “...all _that._ Get you looking less like a savage.”

Gale said he’d see to it.

The captain blew out a deep, calming breath. “Well, I’d better get back up.” He held out a hand to me. “Welcome back, Mr. Mellark.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand. “Sorry for all the trouble.”

He gave another huff and left us.

My eyes followed him as he climbed the stairs to the deck. “I get the distinct impression he isn’t very happy about coming on this trip.”

Gale snorted. “Don’t take it personally. He’s not much different on a good day, from what I can tell. You should know he volunteered for this. We all did.”

It was confusing to reconcile the idea of Katniss’s husband offering to help rescue me. Did he not know?

“Let’s get you two looked after,” Gale said.

We followed him back to the galley. My eyes scanned the doors of the two cabins we passed. Gale filled a pitcher with water, set it inside a basin and grabbed a towel. He handed them to me. He crouched down to address Saasin. “And who are you?” She stared at him, uncomprehending his English.

“Her name is Saasin.”

Gale glanced up at me. “So, she’s with you?” he asked.

“She is now. She lost everyone else in a measles outbreak.”

He patted her head. “Katniss mentioned a child. She told me quite a bit during our sail here, about your time with the Nootka. And after...” His voice drifted off, and a tightness gripped my chest. He sighed and straightened up.

“Are you hungry?” He rummaged through cupboards. “I could find something— Ah, here we go.” He grabbed a biscuit and offered it to Saasin, but she shook her head. Neither of us had much appetite.

“Thank you. We’re fine,” I answered.

Gale put the biscuit back where he found it and, slipping past us, headed aft towards the captain’s quarters. “I’ll see if we can find you some proper clothing, too.”

He opened the door to the cabin on the left, ducked inside and, once he’d lit the lantern, started stuffing items into a canvas bag. “You can bunk here,” he said, pressing himself against the wall, indicating for Saasin to enter.

It was cramped— two stacked berths along one wall and barely two feet of width alongside them to stand in. A narrow desk was located against the wall at the head of the bunk beds. A small porthole near the ceiling emitted the last remnants of twilight from outside. I glanced across the passageway to the opposite door. I could feel her on the other side. It took everything in me not to call out her name.

I turned back to Gale. “This is your cabin?” When he nodded, I fought my unentitled vexation over where he would sleep instead. “I hate to put you out.”

He waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll bunk in the fo'c's'le with the crew. I won’t be on the ship for long, as they’re dropping me off in a couple days at Fort Nisqually. The ship will continue on to take you to Fort Vancouver.”

His words screamed in my head— Dropping _me_ off, not _us._

I moved past him to set my cleaning supplies on the desk so he wouldn’t see my reaction. Gale’s comment didn’t mean anything, I counselled myself. It was my pathetic longing playing tricks on me. I helped Saasin climb onto the upper berth and tucked the blanket under her chin. Her eyelids were heavy, fighting to stay awake. I leaned against the bunk, stroking her forehead as she drifted off.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Gale said, and held out his hand. I shook it and returned my attention to Saasin, who was now asleep.

“You’re Katniss’s husband,” I said in a low voice. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Not anymore.”

I wasn’t prepared for that, and my hand spasmed, grasping the edge of the bunk. Turning to him, I expected accusation or bitterness in his face, but Gale was pensive. “She asked me to turn off our marriage, and I agreed. Katniss is the reason we’re here. She never gave up on you.”

He leaned against the doorframe. “And now you have a decision to make.” I studied him in wary silence. “You’re free now. You can go back to England when the ship returns in the fall, or back east to the established colonies, if you prefer. Katniss is going to try to recommend that to you. Or— and I’d urge you to consider this— you could stay on at Fort Vancouver. The company can always use a blacksmith and armourer, especially one with extensive experience with the Native tribes. Katniss won’t ask that, but I will.”

I remained quiet, parsing his words.

He paused, studying me. “Can I offer you a little advice?”

I nodded slowly.

“She couldn’t let you go, all the time you were held captive. But, now that you’re safe, she’s going to try. If you really love her— and I have every reason to believe you do, given what you gave up for her— don’t let her.”

He bade me goodnight and left. Staring at the closed door, I tried to wrap my head around what he’d told me. The staggering events of the day made it difficult to think clearly. I brought a hand up to rub my face. It came away smeared with paint.

The irresistible presence of the person across the passageway tugged at my chest, my longing dueling with the black stain on my hand. Recalling Katniss’s expression as I rushed to the tyee’s aid— the anguished confusion— cleared my mind. The next time I stood before her, she would see the real me.

I poured some water into the basin and dipped one end of the towel into it. Leaning my back into the corner between the desk and the wall to brace myself as the ship rolled with the waves, I untied my hair and ran the towel over my head. It came away black, so I rinsed it out and began to clean my face.

I heard the door open, and, expecting it was Gale with the clothing he promised, I turned to thank him. I froze with the towel clenched in my hand. My body slumped against the desk.

Katniss.

~~~~~

 **FINAL CHAPTER:**   Released from her marriage to Gale and with Peeta rescued, Katniss is faced with a choice.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta sail towards the future, but one question remains— will it be one they share together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My appreciation goes out to everyone who's read this story, and a special hug to all of you who've left kudos and comments. I am grateful for every gesture of support. Thank you for taking this journey with me. <3
> 
> And now, the conclusion of "Forged Love."

_**I Dream of All Things Free** _

_I dream of all things free!_  
_Of a gallant, gallant bark,_  
_That sweeps through storm and sea_  
_Like an arrow to its mark!_  
_Of a stag that o'er the hills_  
_Goes bounding in his glee;_  
_Of a thousand flashing rills—_  
_Of all things glad and free._

 _I dream of some proud bird,_  
_A bright-eyed mountain king!_  
_In my visions I have heard_  
_The rushing of his wing._  
_I follow some wild river,_  
_On whose breast no sail may be;_  
_Dark woods around it shiver—_  
_—I dream of all things free!_

 _Of a happy forest child,_  
_With the fawns and flowers at play;_  
_Of an Indian midst the wild,_  
_With the stars to guide his way:_  
_Of a chief his warriors leading,_  
_Of an archer's green wood tree;—_  
_My heart in chains is bleeding;_  
_And I dream of all things free._

Felicia Hemans

~~~~~

 

**Chapter 18**

**Katniss**

C’awa’quu’as hadn’t seen me, hidden as I was when he boarded. But even in shackles, the tyee mocked me by playing coy about Peeta’s existence with Gale and Abernathy. They didn’t understand how it was a game for him, meant to make them doubt themselves and to demonstrate how he was the one in control of the situation. They played according to his rules.

I’d had enough.

It wasn’t my plans and preparations that drove me to attack— it was many weeks of shackled anxiety that erupted in instinctive rage. To his credit, the tyee barely flinched when I put the dagger to his throat. His eyes rolled up to meet mine as I pulled his head back by his topknot. He didn’t look surprised to see me. Perhaps it was the way I’d screamed and carried on when they’d forced me to abandon Peeta on that beach two months ago.

Everything disintegrated into frenzied alarm when I made my move. But C’awa’quu’as remained placid, giving only the slightest signal to his men— either to bring Peeta or to kill us all— I was too unhinged to tell. Abernathy was screaming orders, his half-dozen men poised to defend themselves from the canoes surrounding his ship. But my only thought was how it would feel to be the one to kill the tyee for what he’d done to Peeta if he were dead.

When the Mowachaht warrior came at me, I braced myself, knowing this was the end— for me, the tyee— I wasn’t thinking beyond the two of us. Abernathy had been warned what he needed to do if they failed to produce Peeta. It was up to him to save his ship and crew.

But then wide, brilliant blue eyes locked onto mine. I fell into their vortex, my body sapped of all strength at beholding him— alive, feeling his hand grasping mine, the one holding his dagger.

The rest had been a blur— being dragged away, Gale’s eyes, wild with panic as he instructed me to stay put in my cabin. My body wasn’t shaking anymore, though my brain was still reeling.

The fog in my head was starting to clear. Even within the solitary confinement of my cabin, Abernathy’s rants and threats reached me. I pressed my ear against the door when I heard Gale on the other side, offering his cabin to Peeta. But now the passageway was quiet.

I sat on my bed, the fabric of my dress balled up in my fists, trying to sort out all that had happened.

Peeta was here. Safe. And Tanakmis— no, _Saasin,_ I’d heard Peeta say— was safe and with him as well. It was too much to hope for. I started to rock, biting my lip to keep from breaking into pieces without my vengeful fury to hold me together.

I could feel the pull, the sinew that had stretched as they carried me away from Peeta, retracting, drawing me to my feet… two steps to the door… fingers tightening around the handle. My forehead hit the panel.

_You have to let him go. He’s free now. You can’t be selfish anymore._

But I had to see him. I had to see them both. Sucking in a breath for courage, for strength, I opened the door. A peek down the passageway thankfully confirmed no one was there, especially Abernathy and his scorn. I stepped across the narrow hall and with a shaking hand turned the latch, the faint creaking of the hinges announcing my presence.

Peeta slouched against the desk and emitted a small groan when he saw me. The smudged paint on his face and the cedar mantle reminded me of when he’d returned from the attack on Saasin’s village. It roused an ache inside my chest. I closed the door behind me and took the soiled towel from his hands.

“You don’t have a looking glass,” I said. “Let me do that.”

Dipping the towel into the basin of water, I lifted the mop of damp hair from his forehead and began to clean his face, just as I’d done before. Uncovering the pink scar above his eyebrow took me back even further in time. We didn’t speak, but he watched me, his eyes holding onto mine as if he were worried I’d disappear the moment he blinked. If not for the feel of his skin under my fingers as I brushed away the last traces of the paint, I might have questioned the reality of it, too.

“There,” I whispered and set the towel aside.

Not fully trusting my unoccupied hands with Peeta standing so close, I turned to the bunk and leaned over the upper berth where Saasin lay sleeping. I smiled and gently smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead.

“You brought her,” I murmured over my shoulder at Peeta.

A faint contortion flashed across his face when he said, “I don’t know if I’d have managed without her. It gave me a reason, you know what I mean?”

A tightness gripped my throat so that I couldn’t speak, only nod. Yes. I knew. A rush of fear flowed through me at how close he must’ve come to giving up, that this one thing had made the difference. If I hadn’t loved Saasin before, I did now with gratitude for what she’d given to Peeta. And to me.

He sat on the lower berth and rubbed his left leg. I sat beside him, too preoccupied by his pain to worry about our proximity. “What happened? What did he do to you?”

After a quick glance at me, he looked away and grimaced. “The tyee broke it after you left. With his war club.” The significance of that detail wasn’t lost on me.

Blood pounded in my head as the vision of the horrific act assaulted my mind. I saw the damage, the work of the tyee’s hand— wrapped in my anger, tied up with a ribbon of guilt. This was the price paid to save my life.

“I should have killed him,” I hissed.

Peeta looked up, surprising me with the conviction in his voice. “No, Katniss. He should’ve killed me for defying him, but he spared my life. Again. His only other choice was to punish me.”

I severely doubted that and barely suppressed a huff.

He answered my cynicism in a softer tone. “He and his people have suffered enough.”

It was such a curious response after all he’d endured, what both of us had experienced. But Peeta had been through enough without my arguing with him. For now anyway.

“It pains you?”

“If I stand on it too much. But it’s getting stronger.”

Without a thought, my hand went to his shin and caressed his leg up to his knee, drawn by an instinctive need to take away his suffering with my touch. The reaction was immediate for both of us— he closed his eyes and sighed, and my face grew hot— and I pulled back my hand.

After a few heart-pounding seconds, I said, “Lie down. Get some sleep,” daring to touch his shoulder.

He did as I directed, stretching out on the bed. When I went to rise, he reached for my arm, his fingers circling my wrist.

“Don’t go. At least not ‘til I’m asleep. It doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like if I let you out of my sight, I’ll awake back inside the longhouse.”

I shouldn’t stay. I knew it was a bad idea for me if I intended to maintain any safe distance between us. But I couldn’t deny him. Maybe just for tonight. When we reached Fort Vancouver, I’d do what was needed. So I laid down beside him, doing my best in the narrow berth to keep to the edge. Memories of so many other times we’d done the same, lying face-to-face without saying a word, came flooding back. It was so natural that, when he leaned in to give me a kiss, I met him halfway.

It was the softest kiss. It didn’t ask for anything other than acknowledgement of each other’s existence. It was a kiss that I could accept. But then Peeta scooped me up and rolled over, laying his head on my chest. My heart started to race, wondering how I could refuse if it went further, but he grew still and sighed. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin through the fabric of my dress. It came out as a slight shudder, and I exhaled, my hand stroking his hair.

“You’re fine. You’re safe…” I murmured.

Though his body remained tense in my arms, I was beginning to think that maybe he’d fallen asleep when I felt dampness on the exposed skin above my bodice. It was tears.

“Peeta?”

“I’d given up hope. I didn’t think anyone would come for me.”

I’d been trapped there with him. Everyday of it. If he’d died, I would’ve never escaped it. I tightened my grip on him and cried too. It brought a measure of relief. Peeta’s muscles relaxed, and my troubled mind yielded to fatigue. We slept.

 ~~~~~

An awareness of whispers and movement— Gale’s voice and then the sound of retreating footsteps in the passageway— woke me from the first restful night in ages. I opened my eyes a crack and saw Peeta placing folded clothing on the desk. In the pale, silvery light of predawn, I watched as he untied the belt around his mantle and slipped the cedar garment from his shoulders. It fell to the floor, and my breath caught in my throat.

He turned, possibly hearing my faint gasp. I clenched my eyes shut, pretending I was still asleep. When a few seconds had passed, and I was sure it was safe, I spied on him through my eyelashes. I couldn’t stop the heat that ignited inside me, pooling low in my belly, at seeing his naked body again. He pulled the shirt over his head and tucked it into the trousers.

A small, sleepy voice above me drew his attention. I listened as he leaned over the top berth.

“It’s early,” he whispered in the Mowachaht language. “I’m going above, but Katniss is here.”

Saasin asked who I was, and he said, “You remember Katniss— my…” he paused, “... _yaquink’at.”_ His companion.

In a bright voice, Saasin asked, “We’re together now?”

“I hope so,” he whispered. After a few seconds, he soothed, “Go back to sleep.”

When Peeta left the cabin, a shuffling above made me open my eyes. Saasin was hanging upside down over the edge of her bed, her two braids dangling on either side of her face, rubbing her eyes with a fist.

I reached up a hand to give one of her braids a gentle tug. “Saasin. Now I know your name,” I said with a smile. “I missed you.”

She grinned, and, slipping from her berth and landing with a soft thump on the floor, she squeezed into the lower berth when I made room for her. Wrapped in the warmth of our shared blanket, the ship rocked us both back to sleep.

The next time I awoke, the cabin was bright with morning light. I stretched in the cramped bed, waking Saasin, too.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. She nodded, so we got up and headed for the galley.

Thankfully, no one was around. After I’d scrounged up something for our breakfast, I debated my next move. Abernathy had ordered me to stay in my cabin, but the more I thought about it, the more indignant I became. Besides, it was wrong for Saasin to remain cooped up below. A child should have fresh air. I took her hand— Abernathy be damned— and climbed the stairs to the deck.

Gale was near the bow conversing with one of the sailors. I looked towards the stern. Peeta was with Captain Abernathy at the wheel. His back was to me, but Peeta must’ve said something amusing, because he had the cantankerous man chuckling. Abernathy’s mirth vanished when he caught sight of me over Peeta’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed in contempt. Peeta turned, and, giving a final word to Abernathy— whose sneer relaxed into something resembling reluctant forbearance— he came forward to join me and Saasin.

“Gale found you some clothing.” I had a difficult time looking at him, feeling awkward after passing the night in his cabin.

He ran a hand over the material, smoothing it out. “Not as good a fit as what you made for me.” For a moment his eyes twinkled in the sunlight, but the grin disappeared. “I left my capote behind.”

There was such regret in his voice that I blurted out, “I’ll make you another one.”

The flash of optimism in his eyes reminded me I was wading in dangerous waters by promising such a thing. I changed the subject, signalling with a flick of my chin to the stern.

“The captain seems to be in a less hostile mood.”

Peeta rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced a little. “Well, he’s at least not threatening to throw you overboard anymore. We had a good chat, and I explained some things. Though I wouldn’t provoke him. It’s probably best to give him a wide berth as long as you’re on his ship.”

“You have a habit of intervening on my behalf with men who threaten my life.”

A flicker of fire danced within the blue before his eyes left mine. “It’s as intrinsic as breathing.”

The candid admission of devotion made my heart skip a beat. Peeta leaned his forearms on the rail and gazed over the water. I joined him, placing Saasin between us.

“We passed it last night,” he said.

He wasn’t looking at me, but by the quiet intensity in how he stared at the coastline, I knew what he was referring to. The hot springs cove.

“I’m sorry we can’t go back,” I answered.

The muscles in his face grew strained, gleaning meaning from my measured tone, but there was such certainty in his voice when he answered, “It’s still there, Katniss.”

I knew I should say something, offer some bit of sage and practical wisdom about the future. But the words eluded me.

A shout from a sailor on the starboard side near the bow interrupted my ruminations. Gale was leaning over the rail, but he looked back at us and pointed to the water. “Have a look at this,” he laughed.

The three of us crossed to the opposite side, and Saasin cried out in delight. A dozen, maybe twenty dolphins were taking turns swerving in close to our hull. Racing the ship, they leapt several feet out of the water with impressive, athletic grace, flashing their white bellies at us before diving back down into the dark water. It was as if they were playing with us, giving a challenge to our vessel as they showed off their speed and agility.

There was such verve and joy in their antics that watching them made me forget my earlier troubled thoughts. The wind whipped past us, making a mess of my hair. When Peeta reached over Saasin’s head to tuck a curl back into place, I longed to remove the pins and feel his fingers combing through its length once again.

A day of invigorating sea air— pointing at waterfalls and spotting soaring eagles and seals sunning themselves on rocks— left Saasin yawning by the time evening arrived and we’d eaten dinner. It was making me drowsy as well. Gale bid Peeta and me goodnight, reminding us we’d arrive at Fort Nisqually the next day. Peeta suggested we should retire for the night, too.

We paused outside our cabins, my hand on the handle to my door, when Saasin’s face screwed up with confusion.

“Aren’t you sleeping with us?”

It was an innocent question, and an understandable one. She’d only known Peeta and me as a couple, and she was used to family units sharing small spaces in the longhouse. I looked up to Peeta for help, but it appeared he was at a loss for an answer as well. Or maybe, if he had one, he was keeping it to himself. I fidgeted until an excuse came to mind.

“All the waves have made me a little seasick,” I explained. “Better if I sleep by myself, just in case.”

Saasin looked unconvinced— if I was ill, someone should care for me. I could see the words forming on her lips, but Peeta came to my rescue, telling her they’d see me in the morning when I was feeling better. He opened the door to his cabin and guided her inside. I gave him a grateful smile, but there was no mistaking the question in his eyes.

I’d been in bed for almost a half hour, a pool of turbulence in my chest keeping me from sleep, when I heard a soft tapping on my door. I was tired, and the restive emotions of the past few days made me vulnerable. It would’ve been so easy to fling open the door and drag him inside, but I knew I mustn’t. It wasn’t part of the plan. After a minute of holding my breath, I heard the door latch across the passageway click into place. The sound made my heart break, and I buried my face in my hands.

 _It’s for the best,_ I assured myself.

Peeta kept his distance most of the following day. Saasin drifted back and forth between us— playing a game with him where she guessed English words, or letting me plait her hair into fancy designs. We needed to talk— I could see it in Peeta’s eyes as I doted on Saasin— but I dreaded having that conversation.

Gale exchanged words with Peeta at the bow. My ears burned, wishing I could hear what they said, but the wind whipped their words away.

When we arrived at Fort Nisqually that afternoon, I got my chance to say a proper goodbye.

“You’ll see me around,” Gale said as they lowered the jolly boat that would take him ashore into the water.

“Maybe with your new wife, so I can meet her?”

He smirked. “Why? So you can warn her about me?” he teased.

It felt good to laugh, loosening the knot of tension in my chest.

Gathering me in a warm hug, he whispered in my ear, “Don’t be a stubborn fool, Katniss.”

I frowned at him when he released me. “Stubborn is all I know, Gale. It’s the only thing that’s helped me survive.”

He quirked his eyebrow knowingly. “We both know that’s not entirely true.”

A rush of blood coloured my face. I wanted to protest, but he was already climbing down the ladder. He gave us a final wave from shore, and, once the jolly boat was back on board, Abernathy barked out orders to get the ship underway.

A few hours later, standing alone, Peeta seemed preoccupied as he gazed over the side, watching the sun go down. Nostalgia washed over me, and the temptation to join him was almost overwhelming. But I was spared having to make the choice when dinner was announced, and we went below.

All through the meal my mind churned, searching for the words, debating the best way to say them. Peeta was unusually quiet as well, no doubt mulling over what Gale had told him. Or perhaps what he intended to say to me. I’d known back at the hot springs that it would come to this if we ever made it out alive. But I wasn’t ready.

So, when we rose from the table, I excused myself and retreated into my cabin before Peeta could confront me. Heart pounding, I leaned on the back of the door, berating myself for being a coward. Agitated and miserable, I undressed down to my chemise, crawled into my berth, and resigned myself to another sleepless night.

He must’ve felt it, too, because, about an hour later, I heard a tap on my door. I lay still, deliberating what to do, when he rapped again with more insistence.

“Katniss. Talk to me. Please,” he said in a low voice through the door. When I made no answer, he said, “I’m not leaving until you hear what I have to say.”

I was afraid that if Abernathy were in his quarters, he’d overhear, and the last thing we needed was an audience. Rising from my bed and wrapping my shawl around my shoulders, I took a deep breath. My day of reckoning had arrived. I opened the door.

Peeta slipped inside and closed the door behind him. I kept as much space between us as was possible in the cramped cabin, pressing my back against the desk behind me. He gripped the edge of the top berth as the ship pitched, riding the waves. We stared at each other until he broke the silence.

“When we arrive at Fort Vancouver in a couple days, I intend to sign on with the company there. I wanted you to know.”

Peeta settling because of me wasn’t acceptable. I’d been graced with a beautiful piece of his past, and it belonged to only me, something to hold on to for the rest of my life. But I hadn’t any right to his future. “You could do much better.”

His voice flowed deep and warm. “Oh, Katniss. I could do so much worse.”

The set of his jaw, the faint moonlight from the porthole illuminating the narrow ring of blue in his otherwise dark eyes— there was a determination in his countenance I hadn’t seen since the moment of his rescue. Shattering it all to bits was going to hurt us both.

However, on hearing his words, my stomach twisted with a new agony. All along, I’d carried the notion that my motivations were noble, that all I wanted was the best for Peeta. But the selfish truth struck me like a hammer hitting the anvil.

“I don’t want you to stay at Fort Vancouver.”

Peeta slumped against the door as if it’d been him who’d taken the blow. “Why? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

Because I envisioned him living nearby, could see him settle down with a girl some day— young, dark and beautiful, maybe like one of those nubile island girls he’d dreamed about. I imagined the children she’d bear him and what it would be like, witnessing their happiness together. How the perfection of it would taunt me. Every day. I hated this girl who could give him what I couldn’t. How could I live with it?

But I bit my lip and lied. “It’d be better _for you_ —”

“Whatever it is you think is out there for me, I don’t want any of it.” The frustration in his tone sent a stabbing pain through my heart, making me turn away. He leaned forward and tipped his head to the side, forcing me to meet his eyes.

His voice was absent of the sharpened edge when he said, “It’s where I want to be— it’s the best place for Saasin, too.” A beseeching quality melded with his iron conviction. “We could take care of her, raise her together.”

His proposal hit its mark. I could feel tiny fissures spreading through my body in all the guarded places. I clutched the edge of the desk to steady myself.

“Leave her with me,” I managed to get out. “You know how dear she is to me, that I’d take care of her as if she were my own.”

There was such pain in his eyes as I rebuffed his plea that it took everything in me to vocalize my final argument. Strained and sharp, it came out harsher than I intended.

“Peeta, don’t tie yourself to me because a twist of fate forced us together for survival’s sake.”

He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “It might’ve been fate that brought us together, but the love that grew out of it isn’t bound by geography or circumstance.” He paused. “At least not for me.”

As I stared at him, fighting for breath, the unshakable certainty in his eyes ebbed into something much more difficult for me to withstand. Vulnerability.

“Was it only survival for you?”

I knew this was the tipping point. It would only take a nudge to push him from me forever, but, loathing my weakness, I couldn’t summon a response.

The ship rolled, as if the waves themselves were attempting to dislodge my hold on the desk. I could see the muscles in Peeta’s forearm flex and his knuckles turn white as he tightened his grip on the bunk. He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll honour your wishes— leave— if that’s what you really want. But I need something first.”

“What do you need?” My voice was barely audible, dreading what it might be.

“For you to tell me—” He swallowed, his face imploring and filled with pain. “—Is there truly no part of you that wants me anymore?”

An agonized sound escaped my lungs, and I brought my hand to my mouth too late to trap it. Was there any part of me that _didn’t_ want him?

I let go of the desk, and my legs threatened to give out, but his arms were there to catch me. The shawl slipped from my shoulders. I let it fall to the floor. Instead, my fingers clutched the front of his shirt, the linen fabric warm from his body.

Holding me close, Peeta whispered in my ear. “I _am_ tied to you. What does it matter how or why it happened? You’re my river. It’s imprinted on my heart, it runs in my blood. The place of my origin, where I became a man, and the place where, when my time is up, I would be content to die. It will always call me home.” He laid a hand over his heart. “To you.”

The brittle wall I’d tried so hard to place between us crumbled. I couldn’t withstand the dual force of our passionate history and the promise of the future he offered. There was nothing left in me with the will to fight it.

I stretched up on my tiptoes, my hands reaching for his face, needing to kiss him. But he stilled my hands, clutching them in his own. He brought his face close to mine, panting for breath. His eyes were wild but serious, a man on the edge of control.

“Tell me, before this goes any further. It’s you, me, and Saasin. Say it… Tell me this is forever… You are mine, and I am yours.” An entreaty— with me holding the final word.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I am yours. And you are mine. Always.”

The words were barely out of my mouth when he kissed me hard, pressing me against the wall. It was the only thing holding me up. I closed my eyes, and we were back under that waterfall the first time, the overwhelming need and want stripping away all inhibition.

Peeta sunk his fingers into my hair and slouched down so he could attack my neck with his mouth. My head rolled back to give him free rein. I tugged his shirt free from his trousers, and his hands went to the hem of my chemise. Strong fingers raked up my thighs, over my hips and waist. When they claimed my breasts, my hands slid between us.

After fumbling with the first few buttons on his trousers, I gave an impatient grunt and ripped the rest free. They clattered to the floor, rolling under the desk as the ship tilted under our feet.

“Sorry,” I gasped as Peeta whipped my chemise over my head. “I’ll repair them in the morning.”

He gave a breathless chuckle, quickly extricating himself from his remaining clothing. Both of us naked, he braced himself, feet planted in a wide stance and the palms of his hands flat against the wall on either side of my head. His hot breath, like bellows blowing over my skin, stirred the fire inside me into an inferno. He paused, hungry eyes devouring my exposed body. I followed his lead, allowing myself to savour his strong frame, excited by how the muscles twitched under my hands as they glided over his broad chest, down to his abdomen.

When my fingers slipped around his aroused shaft, he moaned and swung us around to the bunk, and we tumbled onto the lower berth. I squirmed under him until he was snugged between my thighs, wrapped in my legs. He tried to lift the bulk of his weight from my smaller body, to reach his hand down to fondle me, but I emitted a guttural growl. Digging my fingers into his buttocks, I thrust my hips against him.

It wasn’t tenderness I was seeking. My blood was too hot, my need too desperate after coming so close to losing him. With a husky groan, he answered my demand, making me gasp as he took me. If I was his river, then I welcomed him into my waters, bathing him in the warm springs of my body and the adoration of my impassioned moans.

With single-minded purpose, he strove as if possessed by a fierce, visceral necessity— a tide surging, retreating, driving for the place calling to the deepest corners of his soul. I felt it along with him, my body responding in kind. It was so innate, so _familiar,_ I was freed from all doubt and fear. The unbridled fervour of our coupling rushed us to the brink. We erupted with a cry of triumph and were swept over the edge, plunging into a blissful pool of warmth.

Peeta and I lay wrapped around each other after, his lips caressing the side of my face, my hands brushing smooth circles over his back. I could feel the tempo of his heartbeat against my chest begin to ease along with mine. He lifted his head and gazed down at me.

“I should go back. If Saasin wakes alone, she might be scared.”

I swept the blond hair, damp and curled from sweat, from his face. “We’ll both go.”

Peeta gave me another kiss and reached for his shirt. Slipping on my chemise, I knelt down to gather up the stray buttons. Peeta gave a husky laugh. “Leave ‘em for the morning.”

I tossed his trousers on the berth, and we crept across the passageway and into his cabin. After giving a light kiss to Saasin’s brow, we crawled into bed, snuggling into the safety and surety of each other’s arms. Peeta soon drifted off, but I was kept from sleep. My mind was swimming from the profound turn my life had taken in the space of an hour.

Earlier, when I’d gone to bed alone, I’d been a free but empty woman. Tomorrow, I would awake bound to a family of my own. It was a captivity of a different kind, one borne of a willing heart and shared need to belong, to be cherished, to be loved.

The enormity of it was frightening. But I’d learned with Peeta that when I was in over my head, there was only one thing to do— reach out for the hand offered to me and hold on as tightly as I could.

So I closed my eyes, trusting in the steadfast arms that held me. And chose to never let go.

~~~~~

 **NOTES:** "Together." Was there ever any other answer for Forged Love's Everlark? I know some readers may be wondering what happened next for them. Others are perhaps disappointed that Katniss did not have a baby with Peeta. The simple answer is a thematic one— Katniss's and Peeta's character arcs are complete. They found what they needed.

The story began aboard a ship, sailing north into a fateful encounter that would change the course of their lives. Peeta longed for the love of a woman who he couldn't imagine would ever choose him. A despondent Katniss believed she was too broken to love. The story has come full circle with them aboard another ship, sailing towards a new life together. Peeta found the unconditional love he hoped for. As for Katniss— it was crucial she find acceptance within herself, realizing her worth was not dependent upon her ability to have a child, and know she deserved a love to last a lifetime.

Katniss, Peeta, and Saasin created a family who chose each other, _forged within the crucible of their captivity._

I have left the ending open to your imagination. Did Peeta and Katniss adopt more children, opening their home to orphans of the fur trade? Or at some future point in time when it was least expected, did a baby of their own making take them by surprise? Did they remain in the Oregon Territory or join with other HBC families in establishing Fort Victoria (Victoria is the present-day capital city of the Province of British Columbia), returning to Vancouver Island where it all started for them? I'll let you decide. But one thing is certain— no matter where Peeta and Katniss went or who were included in their family— theirs was a life and home built on love.

 

The village of Yuquot has been inhabited for over 4300 years by the Mowachaht people with an estimated (summer) population of 1500 individuals during the early years of the fur trade. Yuquot, which means “where the wind blows from all directions,” was designated a National Historical Site in recognition of the significant role the place and its people have played in the history of the region. Though few live there today, it remains an important gathering place for the Mowachaht-Muchalaht First Nations to celebrate their history and culture, also drawing the curious travellers they continue to welcome to "Friendly Cove."


End file.
